Game Changer
by Tigerwalk
Summary: Thanks to Nat Richonne for this prompt! Rick Grimes was starting to believe love and fame didn't mix. After a particular bad night that seemed to prove his theory, he makes a mistake that threatens to tarnish his reputation. His team hires Michonne Anthony to get him out of this mess. She's tasked with fixing his image, but can she also fix his heart? AU-no zombies-slow burn
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hi everyone! Here is a new story that came from a prompt from Nat_Richonne on TITTD. She came up with this premise and was kind enough to let me write it! It's a bit out of my wheelhouse, as in pure tropey fluff with no angst, and Rick is not a cop! :o But I loved the idea and had to jump on it. Let me know what you think! PS this will be a slow burn

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Hey! Any of you guys seen Jessie?" Rick had to raise his voice over the booming music and general debauchery that was roaring around him to get the attention of the handful of his teammates huddled around the bar. It was a Friday night, but the season was in full swing and they were supposed to be keeping things tame. However, what had been billed as a team-only get together at the first baseman's house, had quickly evolved into a block party with a professional D.J. and what looked like a bus load of VIP fans. He was ready to tap out and get some rest.

Dixon and Ford failed to answer him, instead sharing a look that Rick couldn't quite decipher. Shane Walsh, or 22 as he was known, took a sip of his beer and threw an arm around Rick's shoulder, pulling him into the circle they had made. "Ain't seen her in awhile," he yelled, getting the attention of the girl tending bar and circling the air with his finger to order another round. "Have a drink with us."

"Nah, I'm done," Rick said, refusing the beer Shane was trying to shove into his hand. "I'm gonna take Jessie home, then get some sleep. Y'all should be calling it a night too. We gotta be on the field at 8 a.m."

"That's six hours away, Cowboy," Ford said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Let loose a little. We remember your rookie days, we know you can handle it."

By handle it, Rick knew he was referring to the days when they would show up for practice dehydrated and exhausted, and try not to puke in front of a line of reporters as they ran suicides up the baselines. He had let himself partake in that kinda thing when he was younger, and just a number on the roster, but now he was a captain and one of the biggest faces of the team. He prided himself on managing his career thus far without any of the scandals or bad reputations that some of the other guys had to pay big bucks to make go away. That's why he was going to finish the last sip of his one and only beer for the night, find his girlfriend, and go home.

"Maybe next time," he said. "Besides, season's barely started, let's get a few more wins under our belt before we start celebratin' too hard." He reached across his buddies and set his beer bottle on the bar, then gave a nod and a fist bump to his catcher. "Don't leave me hanging out there tomorrow, Dixon," he said, intending to leave them to their own devices, but Dixon tossed his own beer back and followed him as he turned to leave.

"Hold up," he said, hustling until he was right at Rick's side as they crossed the room. "We gotta chat."

"Walk with me," Rick said. "I gotta find Jessie." He stepped through the slider into the private courtyard where the party had spilled out into the chilly April air, and scanned the crowd. Dixon was right on his heels as he weaved through groups of people, dancing and much, much more on the cobblestone patio.

"That's the thing," Dixon said, in a sort of whisper shout that Rick strained to hear. "It's about-"

Rick felt Daryl's hand latch onto his shoulder, just as he skidded to a stop in front of the eight-person hot tub at the center of the yard. It had apparently been commandeered by a lone couple who were doing a poor job at using the frothy water to hide what they were doing. It wasn't the obvious thrusting, or the moaning that could be heard even over the speakers that stopped Rick short though; it was the red and white, polka-dotted bikini and bleach blonde ponytail that he recognized immediately.

"Jessie?" he called, not quite loud enough to reach her over the sounds of the party. He watched as a pair of hands emerged from under the water, moving up his girlfriend's back, and the strobe lights from the DJ booth flickered over a large gold ring that instantly gave away the identity of the other party, despite his face being hidden in Jessie's cleavage. There was only one guy on the roster who had won a World Series, and John Negan was never without the momento.

Negan had been acquired by the team at the beginning of the season, in the hopes of adding another power slugger to the lineup to replace the recently retired T-Dog Douglass. But even after months of Spring training with the team, he had yet to ingratiate himself into the core group of players who had been playing together for the last few years. In fact, there wasn't one other guy on the team that Rick could think of who actually liked the son of a bitch. As a veteran player, and a leader on the team, Rick had attempted to sooth the tension that his presence had brought to the clubhouse, but apparently someone else was going to have to take on that role now, because he was about to bury his fist in John Negan's jaw.

He stormed over to the side of the jacuzzi, just as Jessie threw her head back, tossing Rick's cap that she had borrowed into the water, and catching his eye.

"Rick!" she yelled, jumping up from her spot straddling his new teammate, and moving quickly to adjust the front of her bathing suit that had all but been removed. "I…"

"Save it," Rick growled, turning his sights on Negan. Daryl's hand was still squeezing his shoulder, and he tried to shake it off and lunge for the smirking asshole in the hot tub, but his friend used his other hand to wrap around his bicep and hold him in place.

"Aw shit," Negan said, his toothy grin and relaxed posture causing white flashes of rage to appear in Rick's vision. "Grimes, is this your girl?"

Rick struggled against Dixon's hold, but the catcher had about 30 lbs on him, and he couldn't break free.

"Christ, I feel bad now," Negan smirked. "Here I thought she was a free agent the way she was grinding on my pole just now." He sucked his teeth and shook his head in faux remorse, and Rick narrowed his gaze, a vision of murdering the star hitter with his own bat playing in his head. Negan turned to Jessie who looked as though she was about to burst into tears. "You shoulda told me, sweetheart. I mean, not saying we couldn't a still banged, but I like to know what I'm getting into."

"Rick, I'm so sorry," Jessie cried, tears falling freely from her eyes now. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Now don't blame her, Grimes. It's me. I just have a certain appeal with the ladies. Though, don't know if I'd call her a lady after what she and I just did, but I'm sure you know what kinda little freak you got."

Their voices were barely registering in his ear as Rick's heart pounded out a war cry in his chest. He was a pretty even tempered guy for the most part. Not much set him off, but something about Negan set a lot of people off. He wasn't sure if it was Jessie, or his bruised ego, or just the culmination of something a long time coming, but he was seeing red and if hadn't of been for Daryl, there would have been no stopping the violence that was begging to be let loose.

A small crowd had gathered around them now, multiple pairs of wide eyes peering over brightly colored cocktails, and Rick suddenly remembered the relatively public guest list and all of their cell phone cameras and social media accounts. He took a step back, willing himself to reclaim his composure before he could make a mistake neither of them was worth.

He cocked his head to the side, his narrowed gaze bouncing back to Jessie. Her features all of a sudden looked plain and common, instead of sweet and girlish as he'd originally found them. They'd met on a random Tuesday trip to the grocery store, six months ago. It was one of the few chores he held onto to make him feel normal in the midst of a very public life. She hadn't recognized him, which pleased him immediately, but it was her Southern accent that really drew him to the blonde with the girl next door appeal. He had earned the nickname The Cowboy his first year in town, because of his thick accent and his ever-present boots, and hearing a similar inflection in the middle of the New England metropolis, had him courting nostalgia. He asked her out, and she accepted. They'd even gone out a couple of times before he revealed that he was the starting pitcher for the local pro team, something that had never been able to hide before. But even after that, her lack of sports knowledge, and fellow transplant status, allowed them to have a fairly quiet and normal relationship for the last half of a year. She'd met his son, spent time with his friends who weren't teammates, and he'd even flown her down to Florida for a week during the preseason.

This was the first time he had brought her out to this type of event, though. She knew most of the players, and their wives, from the quieter get togethers they had away from the spotlight, but tonight he had wanted to show her the more glamorous side to his profession. He thought they could marvel at the pomp and excess together, in small town camaraderie, before retreating back into the quiet life that he tried his best to lead. She was a sweet girl; she deserved to enjoy the perks he came with, or so he thought. Looking at her now, he thought she deserved something else.

Sensing that Rick had retreated from the edge he was on, in that non-verbal way that pitchers and catchers excel at, Daryl let his grip loosen and Rick shrugged him off.

"You wanna call Jessie a cab?" Rick ground out, his jaw still clenched.

Daryl nodded, his own face pursed into a threatening scowl at the two.

"Thanks," he said. "Glad you had a good night, Jessie. I think the guy from TMZ is here, if you want your five minutes of fame with this asshole before he moves onto the next one. Ya'll enjoy your night. I'm going home."

"I'll see you out there tomorrow, Grimes," Negan hollered as Rick headed for the gate. "No hard feelings?"

…

The city's weather was far more fickle than its die hard sports fans. What had begun as a brisk Spring morning where your breath still appeared in the air and the fog at the top of the day still crystallized on your windshield, had graduated to an above average temperature under the unfiltered midday sun. The stadium was glistening, as was the clear blue sky, and the smell of the fresh cut grass and stale beer was riding on the very slight breeze that kept the air seasonal. It was the perfect day for baseball, Rick just had to get his head back from the night before.

He was perched on the thick rubber strip of the pitcher's mound, wiping at the beads of sweat that he had worked out of his forehead by crushing some cathartic fast balls into Daryl's dusty mitt. The sound was echoing off of the empty stadium, bouncing back to him in a powerful, satisfying refrain that served to work out some of his anger and sharpen his blurry senses.

Jessie and Negan had ruined his intentions of waking up bright eyed and bushy tailed after a good night's sleep. After laying a strip of rubber on the driveway on his way out of the party, he had taken advantage of the near empty suburban roads late at night to work out some of his rage with a heavy foot on the gas of his Ford F-250 Platinum pickup. The vehicle, though more practical for the New England winters than some of his teammates' pricey coupes, was still all flash and show, and it was the one indulgence he didn't mind flaunting. The guys all assumed he bought it in reverence to his highly marketable Southern boy image, and it did fit his nickname well, but in reality he had purchased it because it was the type of truck the teenage version of himself would have busted a nut over. It reminded him of the man he really was, beneath all of this temporary fame.

When he was done demanding she prove her six figure window sticker, he eased the truck into the three bay garage of his classic two-story Colonial, punched in his security code, and made his way into the sprawling granite kitchen. There was most likely a plate left for him in the refrigerator, prepared by his live-in nanny, Carol, but he wasn't feeling at all like eating after the night he had just had.

She had left a light on for him, and he could smell the evidence of freshly baked cookies wafting throughout the entire first floor as he moved into the living room to kick off his boots and toss his coat on the back of the couch. She and his son, it seemed, had enjoyed an evening of board games and popcorn, judging by the state of the coffee table, and the sight made him smile. Parties like tonight were a rarity for him; usually he'd be right there with them, sitting cross-legged on the floor, getting his ass handed to him in Pop-O-Matic Trouble by a six year old and a spikey-haired, middle-aged woman with all the tenacity necessary to handle his crazy life, from completing their domestic chores to caring for their mental health needs.

He sank into the oversized cushions on the leather sectional, and lay a heavy arm over his eyes, forcing them shut. He never invited Jessie to stay over on nights before game days, so he had already intended on arriving home alone when he'd left earlier that evening, but he wasn't quite prepared for the loneliness that had hitched a ride home with him.

He supposed if he really thought about it, that's what Jessie was. Someone to fill the space, to remind him of his roots, and to take up room in this oversized mansion that was clearly too big for just him, and Carol, and Carl. Carol was a Godsend, and he thanked the team's relocation coordinator every day for matching him with her, but she couldn't fill the one hole that he was still left with after all of life's I's were dotted and T's were crossed; the part of life that the heart lived was the only thing left to deal with.

His profession didn't leave him wanting for female attention, and he'd soaked it up like the sun the first few years, but finding someone who didn't care about the fame or the glory of being on the arm of a pro ball player had been near impossible. He thought he'd finally found someone who wanted more than that in Jessie; someone who was impressed by something other than his job, but clearly she was more susceptible to that lifestyle than he thought. Being suddenly forced to perpend that hole again had him tossing and turning long after his more zealous teammates had surely ended their revelry and turned in for the night.

Rick and Daryl were finishing up their first hour of private practice with the rest of the bullpen, when the other players started to arrive. After lining the private parking lot with sports cars or chauffeured town cars, they filed in small groups of two or three through the locker room where they hung their street clothes and wandered into the dugout, as Rick lobbed a few more over home plate.

When enough of them had arrived, the manager called him off the mound and gestured for him to head toward the training room while batting practice got started. Just as he was wiping the dust from his glove onto the side of his pants, he spotted Negan strutting down the first base line, making his way to where a group of them were stretching in the grass. His smug smile and cocky strut had all of the rage that Rick had pitched into Daryl's mit boiling back up inside his gut. From his lack of sleep, to his new pissy outlook on life, there wasn't much Rick couldn't blame on Negan today, and he was eager for the opportunity to blame him properly.

"Hey, Morgan, I'm feeling a little stiff," he called to the manager, winding his arm around in an attempt to convince the man. "Let me at a few of the guys."

"Alright, Grimes," Morgan said, his eyes on the clipboard he was studying. "Just don't over do it."

"Yes, sir." Rick nodded his head in the direction of the mound, letting Daryl know he wasn't done, and the catcher got back into position behind the plate. They tossed a couple back and forth to keep his arm warm, while eyeing the batting coach as he put the lineup together.

Shane stepped up to the plate first, swinging his bat around and smacking loudly on his ever-present wad of dip. "Going against Grimes today, eh?" He stepped to the plate and pointed his bat at Rick with a cocksure grin. "Guess Morgan wants to take it easy on us, cause he knows we had a long night."

Rick laughed at his friend, watching for Daryl's signal beneath his mit. He offered him a few slow pitches, and a knuckleball that Shane knew well, and he handled them easily, before trotting off to take a spot in the field to work on some ground balls.

Just as Rick had hoped, Negan was next up. He leaned back on his heels, pretending to study the stitches on the ball as Negan went through his batting rituals; tapping the corners of the pate with his shoe, kissing the end of the one and only bat he ever used, crossing himself. Everything the guy did was a production, a show. Even Jessie, poor stupid girl, she was just a way for him to assert himself, make up for some shortcoming that had yet to be revealed, but they all knew he harbored. She had fallen for it and she paid the price, but this wasn't about her anymore. John Negan had this coming for a long time, and Rick had had about enough. It was time to remind him of the pecking order around there, and he just happened to have given him the perfect excuse.

Negan finally stepped into the box, hoisting the bat high over his shoulder. Once he had settled into his stance, Daryl gave Rick a signal for a change up pitch, which he quickly shook off. Rick had a lot of pitches in his arsenal. He had even been known to switch to a Southpaw for the occasional trick play, but what he was really known for was his control, the way he could match the speed and velocity of any fastball pitcher in the league, but with an added precision that the rest of them could only dream of. He could put it exactly where he wanted, and have it arrive before you even saw it coming. Until now, he had only used his powers for good, but every man had his breaking point.

After shaking off the next two signals from Daryl, and earning a knowing glare through the cage of the catcher's mask, he finally saw the flick of a single finger beneath his mit, and nodded his approval. Nothing less than a fast ball would do. Rick leaned back on the rubber, and adjusted the brim of his hat, before bringing the tip of his glove eye level. When he had zeroed in on his target and plotted the exact course of the ball, he reached back with one wide swing of his arm, and sent it speeding like a freight train exactly an inch and a half from the plastic shield of Negan's helmet.

Daryl jumped from his squatted position, snatching the ball from the air and holding it captive while he squinted up the path to the mound.

"What the shit!?" Negan yelled, stumbling backwards a step, before gathering his composure.

"Just slipped," Rick called back, nodding for Daryl to send the ball back.

Negan quickly rearranged his shocked features into his signature smug grin, stepping back into the box. "This about last night?" he yelled, repeating his ridiculous routine. "Christ, I said I was sorry, Grimes. Look, maybe she'll take you back. Lord knows I'm done with her."

Rick ignored his soliloquy, focusing instead on his next pitch. This time he didn't wait for Daryl's advice, pulling back and launching another missle so close to Negan's groin that the breeze from its force rippled his uniform pants. Negan leapt out of the way, letting out a yelp that sounded like it came from a kicked puppy and Rick couldn't help the chuckle that left him.

Negan rested his bat on his shoulder, pulling off his batting helmet and shielding his eyes with his free hand. "You and me got something to hash out, Grimes?"

"Do we?" Rick replied, tossing the ball up in the air and snatching it with his glove.

"You tell me, you prick. We both know what you're doing."

"What the hell is going on?" Morgan yelled from the sideline, the break in the action having caught his attention. "Negan, get back in the box or forfeit your spot. I don't have time for this."

"Get back in the box, man," Daryl said, trotting up the lane to meet Rick on the mound. He lifted his mask and looked Rick in the eye. "You done?"

Rick scratched at the thick stubble sprouting on his jaw, a team tradition when they were on a streak like they had going now, having won the first five games of the season. "I'm done," he said, with a resolute nod. He'd made his point.

"Good," Daryl said, turning for the walk back. "And nice one."

When Daryl was back in position, Rick set up to finish Negan's turn with some easy pitches, but before he could get the first one off, he heard Negan begin to whistle a tune. His musical offering got louder and louder until he decided to add the vocals.

"Let your man know that Mr. Steal Your Girl is back," he sang, bouncing his head to the imaginary beat. "So let your man know that Mr. Steal Your Girl is back, back…"

Rick didn't recognize the song, but the lyrics alone were enough to snap the thin string of composure he was holding onto. He launched one more pitch past the tip of Negan's nose, then tossed his glove to the ground and marched toward home plate. Negan threw his bat aside and took off running to meet him. Rick already had his fist drawn, and he drove a glancing blow to Negan's jaw the moment they collided, whipping his head to the side with a satisfying crack. Negan returned with a hard uppercut, hitting Rick in the ribs and sending him to his knees. Negan swung again, his knuckles connecting with Rick's brow, and he felt his skin split. He scrambled back to his feet and hooked his arm around Negan's neck, trapping him while he delivered a few more kidney shots over the yelling and stampeding footfalls of his teammates.

Daryl got there first, yanking him by the shoulders until his grip loosened, and Negan fell to the ground, spitting and swearing. Shane and Abe had him pinned in an instant, and Rick watched as he struggled in their hold, his eyes wide with fury. His hand was throbbing and his forehead was dripping blood, but he still pressed against Daryl's arms, he wanted another crack at him.

Morgan came to a skidding stop at the scene then, and despite the rage that was still roaring between them, both men stopped their squirming at his arrival. "Grimes, Negan, my office. Now!"

…

"I don't give a damn what this is about." Hershel Green, team owner and fellow Southerner, paced in front of their two bruised faces, glaring his disapproval. Morgan was perched on the desk behind him, his arms folded across his chest and his face serene. After breaking up the altercation, he'd been mostly silent as they took their spots in front of the big boss, waiting for damnation.

"He's clearly unhinged," Negan continued. He was new to Hershel and hadn't learned yet to just shut up and take it when to came to their boss. Rick knew he didn't have to say much, Negan would hang himself in due time.

"Did you hear what I said?" Hershel boomed. "Neither one of you is playing today, looking like that. Do you know how many reporters were out there on that field? You know how many pictures are probably already being sold?"

Rick hung his head, an exhausted breath escaping from his lungs as he rubbed at his temples. Five years of keeping a clean nose out the window. He was contemplating what it would take for this little incident to fade from the public memory, when Hershel tossed a live grenade into his train of thought.

"You're both suspended," he said.

Rick's head snapped up in disbelief. "Suspension?"

"Yes, Rick. What did you think was going to happen when you punched our star hitter in the face in front of the entire city?"

Negan chuckled under his breath, and Hershel swung his head around to face him. "And you? I don't know how things worked where you're from, but Grimes is a captain on this team and you will respect him. We may have paid a pretty penny for you, but his name sells the tickets and merchandise that allowed us to bring you here, and gave you the opportunity to play for the number one team in the East this year. Fall in line, or when you get back from this suspension, you'll be riding the pine until you do. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," they both chorused.

"Good, now Negan get out of my sight. Grimes, Morgan, stay a minute."

Negan rose from the chair and left the office with all of his swagger intacted, while Rick glared after him.

"Rick," Hershel said. "I don't have to tell you that this isn't good. I meant what I said about your name being the face of this organization. I can't afford to have it tarnished because of some stupid feud with Negan."

"Yes, sir," Rick said, his shoulders slumped and his head pounding. "I lost my mind there for a moment. I promise it won't happen again."

"The damage is already done, Rick." He nodded to Morgan who pulled out his cellphone and hit a few keys, then turned the screen so the trio could see it. A photo of Rick being restrained by his catcher, with blood streaming down his face, was already posted to the the local paper's Facebook account and the story was already trending.

"We have to do some damage control," Hershel said, turning to speak to Morgan.

"I'll call the PR department right now."

"Wait," Hershel said, with a hand in the air. "I'm thinking we go beyond hiring a publicist and doing the typical rounds with the vultures that posted these pics in the first place. What we need is a better story to steal the coverage."

"What are you thinking?" Morgan asked, as they continued to discuss his fate as if he weren't even in the room.

"I have a friend whose daughter is a local freelance journalist. Grimes has been here five years now, and we haven't had to pay off a single woman who claimed he scorned her, or a single reporter who'd snapped pictures of him doing something morally reprehensible, or worse, illegal. We know the lives most of these guys lead; someone as squeaky clean as him is a story in and of itself."

"So we commission her to write a glowing piece about Grimes', then what? How do we get it to the public if she's a freelancer?"

"Easy," Hershel replied with a mirthful grin. "She's dating the editor at Sporting News."

...

"So you want me to write a promo story on one of your ball players?" Michonne Anthony was lounging on the couch of her two bedroom condo in the Arts District, sipping a hard earned glass of wine, and considering the outlandish request from her closest family friend.

"Not a promotional piece," Hershel said. "A feel good exposé. Something people can smile at when they read."

"So, a fluff piece."

"A human interest story."

Michonne rolled her eyes at how bad of a salesman her honorary uncle was, despite his profession. Hershel was old money who had used his fortune to indulge in his most favored hobby by purchasing a professional baseball franchise, but a businessman he was not.

"Uncle Hershel, you know sports is Mike's forte. I cover current events, politics."

"This is great practice then. Politicians have way more scandals than professional athletes. You can be like that Olivia woman from that show...what's the name of that?"

"Scandal."

"Right. You can be like her. Cut your teeth on a good guy who happens to have a quick temper, before you get into the stuff the real scoundrels are doing."

She sighed dramatically, emptying her glass and rising to pour herself a second. "Absolving someone of their crimes isn't exactly the unbiased journalism I set out to do."

"Oh, what crimes, Michonne? The man got into a little dust up. I promise you, you aren't being asked to be a party to any cover-ups or even to embellish the truth. You'll see, he really is a good egg."

"So what if I find some dirt in all this digging?" she asked, leaning on the fridge door while she considered his proposal. "I'm still being fair and impartial?"

"I tell you what," Hershel said with a rumble of laughter. "You find any dirt, and I'll double your commission."

"Deal," she said. "When do I meet him?"

"Come to the stadium tomorrow morning. I'll buy you a hot dog and a slurpie, and introduce you to the one and only Rick Grimes."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Thanks so much for all of the reviews and favs/follows! Here is chapter 2.**

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"The Cowboy!?" Andrea asked, her mouth agape. "You lucky bitch."

"Why's that?" Michonne was studying the takeout menu from Nosh, the trendy eatery that had just opened within walking distance of her condo, while she filled her best friend in on the newest assignment she'd just agreed to.

"Um, he's only the hottest guy on the team." Andrea took a large swig of the beer she had arrived with, and pulled out her phone. "Haven't you seen his picture?"

"Maybe," she said. "I don't really follow baseball."

"Michonne," Andrea said, scrolling, "you've been in this city since undergrad. It's almost sacrilegious to not follow baseball." She finally found the picture she was looking for, turning her phone toward Michonne.

Michonne tore her eyes away from the entrees she was deciding between to focus on the full screen, zoomed-in photo of a baseball player's ass, as he bent to scoop a ground ball. "Really?" she asked her snickering friend.

"Ok, ok, hold on." Andrea tapped the screen a few more times, and handed the phone back across the kitchen island. This time she was greeted with an official player stat page from the team's website, and a handsome, chiseled, blue-eyed face smiling back at her from beneath the brim of a cap. She really hated to agree with Andrea, but he was damn good looking.

Michonne nodded nonchalauntly, attempting to hide the physical reaction she had had to the photo. "Regardless," she said, "I'm sure he's a typical pro athlete; rich and entitled playboy. I've met a few through Mike. They're all the same."

"Yeah, well now you get to meet this one and I'm jealous. Do you think you can find a way to introduce me?"

"That doesn't sound very professional," she said, going back to her menu.

"Ugh. You're the worst friend ever. At least take some pics and send them to me."

"We'll see."

"Speaking of Mike," Andrea continued, "where is he tonight?"

"He's at some big black tie charity event some team is putting on. Hockey I think."

"And you were more in the mood for takeout on the couch?" Andrea asked over the neck of her bottle.

"This is the third weekend in a row. You know I can't stand those things. All the showing off, and the fake smiling for the cameras..."

Andrea eyed her with a curious expression. "None of them are real, huh?"

"None of what?"

"The smiles…"

"I didn't mean it like that," she said. "It's just the whole thing is such a show. All these famous people in a room trying to outshine each other. If I wanted a production, I'd stay home and watch a good movie on TV. The dress code is much more comfortable."

"Yeah, it's a tough life you live," Andrea sneered. All of Michonne's friends held a bit of contempt for the perks that came from her relationship with Mike, and the way she actively refused most of them. When she first started dating him a year ago, and her closet began to fill with evening gowns and expensive shoes, the t-shirt and jeans crowd she hung around with had a field day teasing her with Cinderella jokes. Then, when she started passing up more and more of the invitations to be on his arm and hobnob with the city's elite, they all told her she was crazy. It was Mike's job to be front and center though, and she was a behind the scenes type of girl. She saw much more value in spending a quiet evening in, discussing life and actually enjoying the company you were keeping. She couldn't remember the last time she and Mike had talked about anything besides work, and there just never seemed to be enough nights to go around to spend one of them relaxing.

"I'm not saying it's a tough life," she explained. "I'm just saying it's not my preferred life. You'd never catch Mike at the places we go- drinking draft beer and watching a game like everyone else does-on a TV over the bar. I don't think he's ever even been to a play, or the museum, or…"

"Alright," Andrea said, cutting her off. "I get it. So maybe it's time for a talk with him, rather than just going on living two separate lives. You know, let him find someone else to spoil."

Michonne rolled her eyes at the implication. "I didn't say I wanted to break up with him. I just don't see why we have to do everything together. We can have separate hobbies."

"Hobbies?" Andrea laughed. "Is movie night a hobby? Or sitting at the coffee shop with your nose in a book?"

"It's something I enjoy, so yeah."

"Alright, fine. I'm just saying, you're talking to the wrong person. If you want him a little more Netflix and Chill to balance out the fancy parties, tell him."

"Yeah," Michonne said with a dejected sigh. "That is if he can fit it in his schedule."

"Book it with his assistant," Andrea giggled.

She shrugged, welcoming the lightness back to the conversation. "You know?" she laughed. "That might actually work."

…

The next morning was dry and full of sunshine. Michonne threw on a pair of Chuck Taylor's and cuffed the bottom of her jeans to ankle length, then she selected her one and only baseball t-shirt that Hershel had sent her his first year with the club, tucking it in just so, and topping it with a navy blazer. She pulled her long locs into a ponytail, threw on some hoop earrings, and set off to take the train to the stadium, coffee and notebook in hand.

She had no idea what she was walking into when she arrived at the front gates. Despite her relationships with Hershel and Mike, she had only been to the park one time as a young girl. Baseball interested her only slightly more than football, and just a little less than basketball. To be a non-sports fan in this city was like wearing a scarlet letter on your forehead, so she drank at the sports bars and went to the game day parties, but actually attending a game in person had fallen to her list of things she didn't care if she experienced.

A young kid in a red polo and khakis met her at the entrance, looking as though he was living his dream by working for nine bucks an hour as a glorified errand boy to the franchise staff. He hustled down the hallways, and bounded up a flight of stairs, all the while chattering away about spending his summer internship at the historic ballpark. Though she didn't quite understand the appeal, she admired the spark in the boy's eye and indulged him with a few polite questions that allowed him to show off the inside knowledge he had of their surroundings. When she arrived at a large conference room, with a bird's eye view of the bright white base lines and vivid green grass of the outfield, she thanked him for his time and assured him she would be quite fine waiting for Hershel alone.

She had only been waiting a moment when, to her surprise and with zero fanfare, Rick Grimes himself waltzed into the room. If Andrea hadn't showed her his picture the night before, she would have assumed he was another staff member, the way he arrived un-chauffeured, wearing a pair of jeans and a simple, white, button up shirt, and carrying a breakfast sandwich that looked like it was brought from home. Of course there was also the purple bruising and gash atop his left eyebrow that gave away his identity, considering the reason she'd been called in the first place.

"Mornin'" he said, nodding politely in her direction, before wandering over to the wall of windows to look out over the field.

"Good morning."

She watched him study the view of the stadium, and took a moment to assess the big name star who she was supposed to help shine again. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, a big difference from his clean-shaven website picture, and one she thought suited him well. He was even more handsome in person, though she had to note he was still partially hidden under a well worn cap. Men could hide all sorts of things under a ball cap; her friends and she even had a name for it, when a seemingly attractive man pulled off his hat only to reveal a bad case of male pattern balding, or that he was much older or much younger than the accessory led one to believe. They called it a hat trick, and she was just about to entertain herself by guessing what surprise he was hiding under there, when he tipped up the brim to scratch his forehead, revealing a thick head of chestnut hair that curled wildly, as if it couldn't stand to be contained.

"So, you're the one they hired to get me out of this mess, huh?" he said, interrupting her perusal of his physical attributes.

"I suppose that's the intention," she said. She chose one of the black, mesh-back chairs and took a seat. "They said I was just supposed to write your backstory and the mess would go away on its own."

Rick chuckled quietly, taking a bite of his breakfast as he pondered what she had said. He didn't seem to have anything to offer on the subject though, turning over his shoulder and gesturing with his sandwich. "You hungry? There's usually a full spread in the manager's wing at this hour."

"No," she said. "Thank you. I already-"

"Michonne!" Hershel burst through the open door then, his arms wide and a large grin on his face. She stood to receive him and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders in an enthusiastic hug.

Hershel and her father went all the way back to their childhood days on an old dairy farm down in rural Virginia. Hershel's family owned it, and her dad's family handled the books. The two played ball together in high school, then eventually moved up North for school, keeping in touch throughout college, and grad school, and families of their own. She couldn't remember a single event in her life that Hershel hadn't been around for. Now, with her father gone and her mother having moved back to the town where she grew up, Hershel was the one she would call on in the city if she needed anything. And apparently vice versa.

"It's good to see you," she said, relishing in the paternal embrace of the old man. "It's been too long."

"It has. Now that you spend your holidays with Mike, I don't get nearly enough 'Chonne time. How is he?"

"Busy," she said. "As usual. But things are fine."

"Good to hear."

Rick had been quietly watching the exchange from his spot across the room, leaning against the shatterproof glass, with his thumb hooked in his belt loop. She thought she saw a bit of wistfulness in his smile as the two of them quickly caught up on their mutual friends and life over the last few months.

"I see you've met Rick," Hershel said, finally inviting him into the conversation.

"Was just about to introduce myself," he said. He crossed the room, extending his hand to her and she shook it.

"No need," Michonne said with a smile. "I know who you are. I'm Michonne Anthony."

"Pleasure to meet you, Michonne," he said. His accent sounded so out of place, it practically needed its own chair at the table and she found herself grinning at the relative novelty of it among all of the dropped R's and drawn out vowels of the local dialect.

"Michonne has agreed to write a little story about you, Rick. Remind everyone why this city loves its Cowboy."

"Hershel said he wanted a biopic," she said. "Something to highlight your roots. From the sound of it, and your nickname, I'm guessing it's small town hero type of story?"

Rick's cheeks began to color with a light pink that glowed against his scruff. "My dad was a cop," he said. "He had a dangerous job, worked long shifts to put food on the table. He was a hero. I just play baseball."

Interesting, Michonne thought. He was certainly more humble than she had expected. "Alright then," she said, setting her notebook on the table and pulling a pen from her pocketbook. "You tell me. What should people know about their starting pitcher, besides he's got a mean right hook?"

Her phone began to vibrate in her pocket as he dipped his head in thought, and she pulled it out, glancing quickly at a text from Andrea.

" _Are you there right now? What's he like?"_

She swiped the message off of her front screen with a roll of her eyes, and tossed the phone aside, looking between Rick and Hershel and waiting for her answer.

"I gotta couple charities I set up," Rick offered hesitantly, as if the thought of selling himself made him uncomfortable. She wasn't sure if this was all some P.R. image his agent had crafted that he was really good at selling, or if he really was one of the few down to earth celebrities that existed in this world, but she was beginning to find it endearing. Her phone buzzed again and she apologized before pulling it beneath the table to read another message from Andrea.

" _Send me a picture of his hands. I bet they're big."_

Michonne felt a flush in her own cheeks at her friend's insinuation and quickly silenced her phone, tossing it in her bag, then turned her attention to the room. "What kind of charities?" she asked, but Hershel jumped in before he could answer the soft follow-up question.

"How about this?" he said, "Rick has found himself with an unexpected vacation over the next two weeks. Why don't you two spend some time together? You can shadow him a bit, see what kind of guy he is and go from there."

"Actually, Hershel," Rick spoke up, "I planned on going home for a little while. It's been almost a year since I've been back, and I might not get another chance-"

Rick's petition was cut short by the door swinging open once again, followed by the appearance of a little boy with a mop top and freckled cheeks.

"Dad!" he yelled, rushing to the spot where Rick was sitting.

Michonne looked on with piqued interest as Rick scooped his son up into his lap. "Hey Carl," he said. The grin on his face tripled as he ruffled the boy's hair, then turned to the older woman who had hurried in behind him.

"Sorry, Rick," the woman said, "Morgan told him where you were, and he didn't want to wait."

"It's fine, Carol," Rick said. "Thanks for dropping him off. You sure you don't want to join us for lunch? You're more than welcome."

"No, you have your boy time. I'm gonna get some shopping done. I'll see you back home for dinner?"

Michonne watched the three of them plan out a leisurely Sunday afternoon and she couldn't help but wonder what the dynamic was there. Maybe it was the journalist in her, but she was reading the clues, and her gut was telling her Carol wasn't Rick's partner, previous or current. Did he even have a partner? She had heard this whole incident started over a woman, but she was starting from scratch here.

Rick agreed to Carol's plan, and Carl waved goodbye to her, before they were left alone again with the task at hand.

"You were saying, Rick?" Hershel asked, while already setting up a magic coin trick for Carl's amusement.

"I said I have a trip booked. Carl and me are heading back to King County- take a little break from the city life. Didn't make it down there on the off season and, well, like you said, I have some unexpected time off."

Carl was giggling at Hershel's tricks while lounging comfortably in his dad's lap, and she could already tell the two were going to get whatever they wanted from Rick's boss. Hershel was a teddy bear, and the thought of him running this huge multi-million dollar organization often made her chuckle. He pulled the coin from behind Carl's ear, and she smiled at the memory of him playing the same types of games with her as a child. She was so absorbed in watching the sleight of hand maneuver that she almost didn't hear his response, until she saw Rick furrow his brow and she caught up to the conversation.

"We'll see to the travel arrangements," Hershel said. "What better way for Michonne to get to know you than to see you in your element, away from all this noise?"

"Hershel, I can't just go away for a week," Michonne scoffed, though she honestly couldn't think of a concrete reason why not. She lived alone, she had no kids or pets, this was her work, but when she had agreed to this job she had envisioned a little time at the ballpark, maybe an event or two she would have to attend, then finally some quiet alone time in her home office to write the story. A trip to the middle of nowhere wasn't part of the deal.

"Nonsense," he said. "Rick, you get with Michonne on the dates and I'll have the travel department arrange it. I'll let you two discuss it. Come on, Carl. You can have the hot dog I was going to buy Michonne." He put his hand up to his mouth, as if to mask a secret from the rest of the room, before whispering, "She doesn't even like them."

Carl scrunched his adorable little nose at her, hopping off his father's lap and taking hold of Hershel's outstretched hand. The two hurried off, and Michonne couldn't tell which one of them was more excited.

Michonne sat silently, trying to figure out how in a matter of moments she had just been signed up for a week-long trip to a little town she'd never heard of, with a famous professional baseball player whom she had met approximately fifteen minutes prior.

Rick looked just as dumbfounded, as he sat there staring at her, his lips slightly parted. "I- um…"

He couldn't seem to find any words, so she spoke first. "So where is it we're going?" she asked, trying to put on a professional smile.

"Georgia," he said. "Place called King County."

"Never heard of it," she said.

"Yeah, you wouldn't have," he said with a bashful smile. "It's barely on the map."

"Sounds like a blast."

Rick rubbed at his temples before meeting her eyes again, obviously as displeased with the arrangement as she was, but too polite to say anything about it. "Listen," he finally said, "nearest hotel is a few towns out. There's a couple 'a motels, trucker-stop type places. Nowhere you should really be staying by yourself. I don't want to be forward, I'm sure this is ain't exactly what you had in mind, but I still have a house there and a guest room. You're welcome to stay with me and Carl."

Michonne blinked a few times in surprise, unable to quite form the words she needed to answer. This just kept getting more ridiculous, though once again she couldn't come up with a good reason to refuse.

When she didn't answer right away, he pushed his chair out from the table and stood. "Think it over," he said. "I was going to leave Tuesday. It's Spring Break and I wanted to avoid the crowds that'll be leaving the day before. Try to fly under the radar for awhile."

"That's probably a good idea," she said. "Tuesday then."

"I'll see you at the airport."

"See you then." He nodded, and she followed him out of the room with her gaze, trying not to compare the in-person view with the first picture Andrea had showed her. Her friend was going to lose her mind when she heard this, Michonne thought, quickly finding her phone and getting ready to send her a text. As soon as she found it though, she was greeted instead with a text from Mike.

 _Meet me for lunch?_

She suddenly forgot all about filling Andrea in on the last hour, when she remembered someone else who was going to lose their mind.

…

Rick and Carl finally arrived home from their day in the city to find Carol putting the finishing touches on a pasta dinner that looked like it was for his entire team and then some.

"We got company coming?" Rick asked, tossing his gym bag on the floor and kicking off his boots before entering the kitchen.

Carol swung around with a slotted spoon in her hand and a devilish look in her eye, and Rick raised an eyebrow at her, crossing the room to get himself a beer from the fridge. "Go on and get washed up, Carl," he said, sending the boy scurrying up a flight of stairs and out of hearing range. Rick could tell by her expression Carol had something to say, and usually when she had that look, it was the type of thing Carl shouldn't hear.

"What?" he asked, popping the cap off of his bottle and leaning against the counter. "Spit it out."

"That was the writer? At the meeting this afternoon?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Michonne Anthony. She's a friend of Hershel's"

"She's gorgeous," she said. "Bet you forgot all about that blonde bimbo when she walked into the room."

Rick nearly choked on his mouthful of beer. He was well used to Carol's direct nature by now, but the accuracy of her statement caught him off guard. He knew he wasn't the only one who noticed Michonne was absolutely stunning, with her glowing skin and knee-weakening smile, but he also knew the more beautiful they were, the more they expected. Jessie was cute at best, and obviously she thought she deserved something more than he was giving her. Besides, Michonne was there to get him out of a jam. Her good looks were a non-factor in this particular arrangement.

"I was hoping she might be joining us for dinner," she continued, "so I made extra." She turned back to the stove and stirred the large pot of marinara sauce bubbling on the burner.

"You thought I was gonna ask her to dinner? Here? Tonight?"

"Gotta get back on the horse sometime, right cowboy? She was checking you out too."

Rick waved a dismissive hand at her and peered up the staircase to make sure Carl wasn't in hearing range. "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly feeling like riding again after the other night," he said. "Besides, she's got a boyfriend and I'm not Negan."

"No. You're not," Carol said with a sympathetic smile. "And someday you're going to find a woman who appreciates that about you."

Rick sighed, having had enough of this conversation already. "Today ain't that day. She was hired to fix my tarnished reputation, remember?"

"Well, you do look a little rough," she said, gesturing to his eye with a wink. "Maybe wait till that heals, let her get to know you a little. That's what her job is, right?"

"Exactly. It's a job, and I'm not looking to get into another mess right now. I just want to get away, turn my brain off for awhile, but Hershel's sending her to K.C. with Carl and me. Wants her to see me in my natural habitat."

Carol chuckled at his joke, then turned to him with her hands on her hips. "Wait...so you two are spending the week together in an old dusty town with not a single thing to do but enjoy each other's company?"

Rick cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at her implication. Carol was acting like this was some romantic getaway, when in reality it was a suspension, and a rock to hide under while the noise died down. Now he had to add tour guide and host to the list.

"Dad!" Carl called, bounding down the stairs with his hair bouncing in his eyes. "If that lady stays with us at the house in Georgia, do we have to give her her own night to pick the movie? Cause I already have my three picked out."

Carol raised her eyebrows and her chuckling turned into a full belly laugh, as Carl spilled the remaining details of their upcoming trip. "She's staying at the house with you?" she asked, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Oh this is going to be good. You sure you don't need me to come with?"

"I told you it ain't like that. And I've got it under control," he said. "You enjoy your extra week off."

"I'll try," she said. "Bet I'll have to try harder than you."

…

"Let me get this straight. You're going away with the guy for a week to write this story, and you're staying at his house?" Mike was reluctantly seated on the arm chair in her bedroom, sipping a glass of wine, and looking as if he were a guest at an unfamiliar relative's house. He prefered when they spent their time at his huge house in the suburbs, and had made his usual fuss about having to stay in the city this evening, but she needed to pack if she was supposed to board a plane in forty-eight hours.

"You're making it sound like I have a choice!" she said, stuffing a few more pairs of shoes into her suitcase. "I have to write his story and that's where he is going to be. I checked it out and he's right, there isn't a hotel for miles."

"So rent a car, Michonne," he said.

"Come on, Mike. Are you really worried about this? You know how I feel about professional athletes. That's why I didn't go with you this weekend. They're a bunch of entitled jerks who peaked socially in high school and got rewarded for it. This isn't something I'm looking forward to, but it's for Hershel."

"You're going to miss hockey playoffs," he said, pivoting to what she knew was really bothering him about her trip. She'd noted the conflict in the date as soon as she'd put the trip in her calendar, and she couldn't say she was disappointed to miss the series. "We're slated to win the cup, Michonne. You should be in the box with me; this is going to be a big night for photo ops."

"You know how much I love hockey," she said sarcastically. "But that's your job and this is mine."

"Writing a ball player's get out of jail free card?"

"You think that's what it is?" she asked, pausing her packing to look at him. She trusted Hershel, but Mike had an in where these things were concerned. It was highly possible he knew more about what Hershel's team was up to than he did.

"Isn't it, Michonne? Look, you said so yourself, they're all the same, right? I don't know Grimes personally; he doesn't run with the crowd I know, but if you've met one you've met them all. He had to have some reason to start a fight with his own teammate. My guess is he's threatened. He's been top dog for awhile now. Guy like Negan joins the team, upstages him? It was a typical childish reaction from a guy who plays a game for a living. Now you're going to write him out of it. Help him hold onto those endorsement deals he gets from his golden boy image."

Michonne pondered Mike's take on the situation. It was her first inclination when she'd heard the story too, but after meeting Rick today, seeing him with his son, she was starting to think maybe there were a few feel good stories left to write. A good guy who got the break of a lifetime and didn't squander it by letting it turn him into an asshole. She blew out an exhausted breath and took a seat on the edge of her bed, inspecting her overflowing suitcase. She had a very long week ahead of her to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

Carol insisted on walking them to the security check-in, after kindly offering to give Rick and Carl a ride to the airport. Rick was sure she just wanted to get one last look at Michonne so she could use the meeting to give him grief at every opportunity while he was gone. Text messages, phone calls under the guise of wanting to speak to Carl- she'd find a myriad of ways to inquire about their arrangement now that she had it in her head there was something to know.

She stood by the window chatting with Carl and watching the planes take off, while Rick checked his watch again. The travel department had assured him they were booked on the same flight, and that she had all of the details, but she was ten minutes late for the standard hour-early check in for domestic flights and he was starting to worry there had been some sort of complication that would hold up his own plan to make his escape.

He finally caught sight of her sauntering down the hall, rolling a suitcase behind her, and apparently not in any rush at all. She was dressed in a floor length, multi colored dress with sandals and a denim jacket, and her hair was down, her long locs falling around her face as she stared down at her phone. He glanced over his shoulder at Carol to see if she had noticed her approaching. When he saw that she hadn't, he took another moment to look her up and down from behind his mirrored aviators, Carol's comments ringing in his head. She certainly made an impression. Her beauty was effortless, the kind that didn't need the extra glitz and glamour to shine, and he'd be a fool not to have noticed, but he was going to have to find a way to put it out of his head if they were going to be housemates. This was business.

"Hi, Michonne!" He was still watching her when he heard Carol's voice call out behind him, and she practically knocked him over, pushing past him to introduce herself. "We didn't get formally introduced the other day. I'm Carol. It's so nice to meet you."

Michonne smiled politely, obviously taken aback by the enthusiastic greeting from a woman whom she had met one time and never spoken to, but Carol was unfazed.

"It's nice to meet you too," she said, shaking Carol's hand. She turned to Carl then. "And it's good to see you again."

"You too," Carl said. "Do you like superhero movies?"

"Carl," Rick said, stopping him before he could bring up movie night again.

Michonne's grin only grew, though, as she knelt to speak to the boy. "I love them," she said. "Did you pack some for the trip?"

Carl bobbed his head, beaming from ear to ear, and Carol used the moment to drive a hard elbow into Rick's side, forcing him to be a party her conspiratorial wink. "Alright, Carl," he said, rubbing at his ribs. "Say goodbye to Carol, now. She has to go."

"Bye, sweetheart," Carol said, kissing the boy on the cheek and adjusting his backpack on his shoulders.

She gave Rick a hug as well, standing on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear as she bid him goodbye. "You don't stand a chance," she taunted. Rick could feel his cheeks begin to flush and he released Carol, praying Michonne hadn't heard her commentary. "Enjoy yourselves, kids!"

"Enjoy having the place to yourself," he told her, as she waved over her shoulder at them.

"Ready?" he asked Michonne, once Carol had disappeared from view.

"Let's go to Georgia!" she said, her cheeks shooting up to the sky in a smile that he was sure could kill on sight.

…

Carl sat between them, an oversized pair of Beats by Dre headphones covering his little ears and his eyes trained on a car racing game on the Ipad sitting in his lap. Michonne marvelled at the price tag of all of the technology the first grader had in his carry on bag while she fiddled with the headphones she'd purchased for two dollars from the flight attendant. The flight was only a few hours, but a small technical difficulty had resulted in them sitting on the tarmac for forty-five minutes before they even took off. Now they were only halfway there and she'd already grown bored of the in-flight movie.

Rick had his head tipped back and his cap pulled low over his eyes, giving the impression that he wasn't interested in passing the time conversing with her, but she decided that arriving at his home without a little small talk before hand was going to be extremely awkward, and awkward wasn't how you get people to open up enough to tell their life story.

She smiled at Carl, before reaching over him and tapping Rick on the elbow, startling him out of what she quickly realized was an inconspicuous nap. "Sorry," she said. "I was just thinking we have another hour and half in the air, maybe we could get some work done?"

Rick cleared the back of his throat, straightening in his seat and stretching his arms out in front of him. He glanced down at Carl, seeing that he was well occupied, and nodded. "Alright," he said, his voice raspy from the sleep she had pulled him from. "Where do you want to start?"

Michonne turned to face him, settling on her hip and bringing a leg underneath her in the little pleather seat. "This place we're going," she asked, "did you grow up there?"

"I did," he said. "Born and raised. Lived there my whole life till I signed with Hershel. Even my first two years in triple A. I'd commute to the city during the season, but I still lived in King County."

"So you spent two years in the farm league before going pro?"

"Yeah," Rick said with a nod. "Well, actually I got drafted right to the majors my Junior year in college, hometown team and everything, but I got injured second game into my first year. They dropped me back to the minors. Spent the rest of that year, and the following season while I was recovering, playing there. Then Hershel traded for me, and I've been a Northerner ever since...sorta," he added in an exaggerated twang.

Michonne smiled at his joke and nodded along with his story, committing the timeline to memory. "Now how often do you get back?" she asked.

Rick's mouth curled into that same wistful smile she had seen at their first meeting, his eyes revealing the regret in his answer. "Not often enough," he said. "Someday all of this is gonna come to an end, and I'm gonna have to pack up and go home. I don't want Georgia to seem like a foreign country to Carl when that happens."

"You have plenty of time," she said, studying his face to take a guess at his exact age. She had already gathered that he had Carl young, and though he had a little salt sprinkled in his pepper stubble, he certainly didn't look like he was approaching retirement age.

"Can't take any of it for granted," he said. "Starting pitchers have shorter careers than the rest of the players. Overuse, age...we just wear out quicker. And my arm's already been repaired once." He paused to take in her face, and smiled at her serious expression. "I'm not turning in my glove anytime soon," he chuckled, "but doesn't hurt to plan for the future."

"No," she said, glancing at Carl who was still racing cartoon cars. "I suppose it doesn't. Can I ask you something?"

Rick laughed, and she smiled at the superfluous question, given that that was her sole reason for being there. He nodded his agreement anyway.

"Carol," she said. "What's the deal there? Are you and she-"

"No," he laughed again. "She's Carl's nanny, and our housekeeper, personal assistant, cook ...she's...Carol."

"But she lives with you?"

"Yeah," he said, drawing out the word with a long breath. He did another check to ensure Carl's lack of attention before continuing. "Didn't start that way. When I hired her, she lived the next town over with her husband, Ed. She used to be a school teacher, turned to nannying when she found out she couldn't have kids of her own. It was a few months into her workin' for us, I started noticing it. She was great, best I coulda asked for coming into town blind like I did, but she was always offering to pick up more hours, take on more responsibility that kept her working later into the night. I didn't mind, Lord knows I needed the help, but I had to wonder why she didn't want to go home."

Michonne nodded, the wheels turning in her head as she watched his expression darken. There was only one way this story could go. She'd heard a few of them like it before, but she was intrigued to find out Rick's take on it.

"Anyway" he continued, lowering his voice, despite their relative seclusion. "One day I came home early and she had been cooking, spilled something on her sweater so she was in short sleeves, which I all of a sudden realized I'd never seen, even in the summer. Sure enough, her arm was covered in bruises. I put two and two together and she told me about her husband, how she was trying to save up enough money to leave him.

22 and I, we paid him a visit the next day...talked a little sense into him while Carol packed up her stuff. She took over the guest wing of my house, and became like the C.E.O of our lives. She never looked back and frankly- I hate to say it cause I wouldn't wish that on anyone- but that turn of events saved my ass. I couldn't have done it without her as Carl got older."

"Sounds like you saved each other," Michonne said quietly, contemplating the story.

Rick went silent, staring at the back of the seat in front of him with his faced pursed in thought. "I guess," he said after a moment. "Hey, let's keep that off the record, alright? It ain't my story to tell."

"Of course," she agreed, though it wasn't lost on her that this might be exactly the type of thing she was supposed to be including, according to Hershel's instructions. She was just about to transition into the obvious follow up question- where Carl's mother was- but the boy grew bored of his game and slipped off his headphones.

"I'm hungry," he stated, matter-of-factly and without even the hint of a whine. Michonne was starting to realize, even after only a short time, that Carl was a good kid. Even with all of the luxury he was surrounded by, Rick had raised him with good manners and maturity. Or maybe, she thought, the latter might be because of their lifestyle, rather than in spite of it.

She watched as he stashed his Ipad in his little backpack and pulled out a perfectly packed lunch box with multiple compartments, all stuffed with healthy snacks. He selected a few apple slices, then held out the box in her direction.

"Want some?" he asked.

Michonne smiled back at him, noticing all of the features he shared with his father: pretty blue eyes, a serious expression that gave his smile all the more light. "Thanks," she said, helping herself to a couple of pretzels. Rick declined his offer to share, slouching down in his seat again, and she took it as a sign that the official stuff would be on hold while Carl was joining them. She decided to change the subject. "So, Carl," she said in between crunchy bites. "You know Hershel, huh?"

"Yeah," he replied, his grin growing. "He's cool. He lets me hang out in the locker room sometimes before games, even though I know it's sorta not allowed."

"It's allowed," Rick chimed in, his eyes having closed again. "It's all the food he has sent down for you that's a special accomodation."

Michonne chuckled, reaching for another pretzel at Carl's urging. "Hershel and my dad were friends," she said. "I've known him since I was even younger than you."

"Really?" Carl's eyes went wide at the information.

"Yup. Who do you think he perfected all of those magic tricks on?"

"Cool! So does that mean you know how to do them too?"

Michonne scrunched her nose up and shook her head. "He never told me the secret."

"I'm gonna figure it out one day," he said, popping some more fruit in his mouth.

"I think you have to have white hair and suspenders before you can do tricks like that."

Carl laughed, looking over at Rick for confirmation, but he only shrugged. "Some day," he decided, nodding his head determinedly.

The rest of the flight went by quickly, with Carl's re-emergence into the conversation keeping them from getting any further into her background study. She found the boy to be much more entertaining than his father, though. While Rick spent the remainder of their time in the air dozing, she and Carl talked about everything from his first grade class at the local public school- which surprised her to learn- to his dad's ex-girlfriend, and catalyst for the fight: Jessie. Jessie was apparently really annoying and couldn't cook nearly as well as Carol, from what Carl divulged when he was sure Rick was asleep. She was learning more about her subject from his gregarious son than she'd gotten out of him since they met.

When they had landed and retrieved their bags, they spent another hour in the large SUV that Rick had rented, travelling down roads that grew more and more deserted as the miles ticked by. The familiar cityscape that greeted them when they got off of the plane, with tall buildings and rushing cars, melted into thick tree lines and seemingly never-ending fields filled with a cow population that would make Hershel's old dairy farm jealous.

After driving for miles down a long road to virtually nowhere, Rick finally pulled the truck onto a driveway, barely visible from the road, and came to a stop in front of a white, mid-size, two-story home. It was surrounded by trees on either side, with a small fence around the backyard, presumably to keep out animals, as there didn't seem to be another person for miles. The home had an addition above the two-bay garage, and Michonne peered out of the passenger side window as Rick turned off the engine and hopped out of the truck. She was still taking in the complete and utter isolation when, to her surprise, Rick appeared at her window and opened the car door for her.

"Thanks," she said, stepping out onto the dusty driveway and following him to the tailgate to retrieve her bags. "This is beautiful...but...where on Earth are we?"

Rick had a shy grin on his face as he loaded Carl up with bags and took a few for himself, leaving only her purse for her to carry. "I told you," he said. "This is King County, Georgia."

She walked, wide eyed, behind him as he approached the front door. She was caught between being impressed by the untouched beauty that surrounded her, and the nagging fear that she had just arrived on that scene in a movie where the killers hide the dead body, with a man she barely knew. She took a little solace in the fact that he was far too famous to get away with killing her on a trip that would probably become public knowledge, so she kept going.

Rick unlatched the lock and opened the door, and Carl rushed by him with all the eagerness of a six year old on an adventure, immediately disappearing to up the staircase.

"Get your stuff put away while you're up there," Rick called after him, as he crossed the threshold. She stepped in behind him, taking in the cozy interior. The living room was small, all of the furniture arranged around a stone fireplace that anchored it. From there, the open space melted into a kitchen with wooden counter-tops and twenty-year old appliances. There was a breakfast nook and round dining table situated in front of a glass slider that looked out over the rolling fields behind the house. All in all it was much more quaint than she'd expected.

Rick dropped his suitcase and team duffle bag on the couch and walked over to the fridge to pull out a beer, while she took in the accommodations. He held it up to her, but she shook her head, declining the offer, that dead body scenario still playing in her head.

"There's a guest room above the garage," he said. "You probably saw it comin' in. It's got its own bathroom. I made sure it was all made up for you."

"Who keeps this place up?" she asked, suddenly realizing his fridge was clearly stocked, though he'd confessed he hadn't been back here in ages.

"I hire someone. She's like my Southern Carol," he chuckled, "only she just has the house to worry about, 'stead a me and Carl, too."

"You pay to have someone keep this house empty just in case you want to come back for the weekend?"

Rick shrugged, leaning against the sink and taking a long pull of his beer. She supposed money-wise it wasn't a big inconvenience for him, but why bother, she wondered.

"I rented it out the first couple years," he explained. "But, like I said, I don't want Carl to feel like a stranger here, so I like the idea of him coming back to the same house when we have a chance to be home."

"So you still consider this home? The city life really hasn't captured your heart after all these years?" She wandered through the living room, peeking at the mementos of Rick's life that lined the book shelves and hung on the walls. She was beginning to think being here was exactly how she would get to know the real Rick Grimes, now that she was getting past her indignance over the situation, and beginning to realize his company was tolerable.

"It did at first," he said. "There's something to be said for being able to get a pizza, or a gallon of milk, after six pm, but even after all of these years it still feels like I'm visiting, 'cept when I'm on the field."

"I get that," she said. "But after it all ends, whenever that is, what's here?" She wasn't sure why she was delving into the future when she was supposed to be writing his past, but there was something about the way he said it that intrigued her. Like he was holding on to the idea of something that might not actually be a reality anymore. Notions like that always had a story, and it was her job to sniff it out.

Rick tilted his head to the side, studying her with his eyes squinted as if the question bothered him somehow. He kept his gaze on her while he took another sip of his beer and, in the way she was coming to realize was his habit, he changed the subject instead of answering. She wasn't sure how she was supposed to complete this job if he was going to pivot at every question.

"What is it about that life that captures your heart?" he asked. "I recognize your picture from The Sporting News. You're always at the parties, the charity events. You enjoy that stuff?"

Michonne couldn't help the chuckle that left her. She was surprised to hear he recognized her from the few times she'd been featured in the society section of Mike's magazine. Especially given all of the events that she'd skipped, like the one she was missing to be here. "I guess so," she said. Even if she'd wanted to tell him how she really felt about it, she wasn't there to talk about herself.

He kept his eyes on her face as he took another sip, looking as if he'd detected the lie instantly.

"So, tell me something," she said. Having found herself alone with him again, if only for a few minutes, she was determined to stay on task. "This thing with your teammate...it was over a woman?"

Rick closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. "It was stupid," he said. "I let it get outta hand. That's not who I am."

"So who was she? Wife? Girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend. Didn't you read about this like everyone else?"

"I don't keep up with that kind of news. Besides, once Hershel hired me, I avoided it on purpose. I wanted to hear the story from you."

"Negan's an asshole and I was having a bad day," he said. "That's the story. Of course it spiraled from there, the way things do."

"And Carl's mother?"

"What about Carl's mother?"

"How does she fit into all of this?"

"She doesn't," he said, sharply. The pleasant way they had been conversing had turned into a stilted back and forth, and Michonne knew she had accidentally hit a nerve. "Carl's mother died the day he was born. She wasn't anything like Jessie, or the other women who are just looking for a way into that lifestyle. This was her house, our house. So when you asked what's here in this little town for us, I guess it's that. That's why I want him here." He drained the rest of his beer, dropping the bottle on the counter.

"I'm sorry," she said, a rush of warm guilt flooding her cheeks at his reaction. "I had no idea."

"I'm gonna hit the shower," he said, bringing the conversation to an abrupt halt. "Your room has its own entrance. Through that door, and up the stairs. Everything's unlocked."

"Ok, Rick," she said.

He blew out a long breath, running a hand over his face before looking at her again. "I can get your bags for you," he said.

He took a step toward the living room where her suitcases were still sitting beside the front door, but she stopped him. Things had turned tense and she didn't need an awkward trip up a narrow staircase with him to drag it out any longer.

"It's ok," she said, stepping faster than him, and reaching for the handle. "I've got it." She hoisted her bags and headed toward the door he had pointed out while he kept his eyes on the floor.

"Dinner's in an hour," he said, once she had turned her back to him. "Hope you're not a vegetarian."

She turned back to see a repentant smile on his face, but the room suddenly felt impossibly small and she was eager to make her exit. "I'll see you in an hour then," she said.

…

"Shit," Rick mumbled under his breath as he tipped his head back under the warm stream of water, letting the forceful spray pound his skin. He ran a hand over his head, dispersing the droplets through his hair and attempting to soothe the headache he could feel coming on.

He hadn't meant to be short with Michonne, but he was beginning to think this whole thing was a bad idea. Maybe he should have just taken his licks, and waited until it all blew over. Or he could have hired a publicist and gone the traditional route of begging for forgiveness through public events and press conferences. Shane and Abe both had good ones, and for good reason. He could have gotten a recommendation from one of them and kept the focus on the future instead of the past, which he was sure Hershel was hoping she would find a way to use. He'd gone this long without capitalizing on his sob story, and he wasn't about to start using it now. Not for Hershel, not because of Negan, and not with Michonne.

It wasn't that he was ungrateful for his boss's helping hand. Hershel knew that being a fan favorite would pad his career with a few extra seasons, even when his speed and accuracy began to wane and he moved out of his starting position, as long as he could still sell merchandise, he'd have a job. He was pushing thirty and baseball years were like dog years, especially for a pitcher. He had to stay healthy and keep up his money making image; but at what cost?

He rinsed the lather from his hair, letting it roll down the slope of his shoulder and over the tanned skin of his forearms. How ridiculous, he thought, that everything he had in life rested on a few fragile muscles and a string of events, happenstance, that he never had control of. Now it could all go differently again because of five minutes of letting his temper get the better of him.

The last few days had been enough to make him question whether he had what it took to sustain all that he had built. Being back in the town that "knew him when" was supposed to be relaxing, reassuring, but having Michonne here meant he was still on display in the one place he had left to hide. It didn't help that she had the kind of eyes that could peer into your soul. Every time she looked at him, he felt as though she already knew the answer to whatever question she was posing. He'd spent the entire plane ride trying not to look at her for that very reason, but now, because he was an unrelentingly magnanimous moron, who offered her the guest room in his house, he would be looking at her all day for the entire week.

Toweling off, and pulling on a clean pair of jeans and the first t-shirt Carol had put inside his suitcase for him, he decided to accept his fate and make his way back downstairs. He glanced at his watch on the way down to the main floor, seeing that he still had about thirty minutes until he'd told her they would be eating. With the way he had acted before, she probably wouldn't be joining him much before that, he thought, as he rounded the corner and entered the living room.

To his surprise, he found her sitting on the couch next to Carl, with her legs pulled underneath her and a glass of lemonade in her hand. He watched them converse for a moment, allowing himself a quick glance at her long legs in the shorts she had changed into, before announcing his presence by clearing his throat.

"Hi," she said, smiling more genuinely than he expected. "Hope you don't mind," she said, holding up the glass. "Carl thought we should have some."

"Of course." He scratched at his chin, wondering if she was just being polite in front of Carl, or if she was really giving him a pass on the way he had spoken to her. "Help yourself to whatever you see. I was going to put some chicken on the grill for dinner if that's alright."

"I feel bad, you feeding me," she said, standing and coming to meet him in the archway to the kitchen. "I just assumed there would be somewhere to get takeout or whatever."

"Don't worry about it. I know you weren't expecting to have to come out here. The least I can do is put you up." She nodded, sheepishly, and he could tell their previous conversation was still hanging on the air between them. The last thing he wanted to do was to have her feel uncomfortable in the place he'd convinced her to stay. "Hey," he said, "listen, I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to-"

"No," she said, pressing her fingers to his forearm. "I made an assumption about your lifestyle, and I was way off-base and completely out of line. I'm really sorry."

"Let's just forget about it," he said, offering her a conciliatory smile and heading toward the kitchen. She followed him out of earshot of Carl, and came to stand beside him against the counter.

"I can be pushy sometimes," she said. "I don't mean to be, it's just that I was hired to help and I need to get to know you to do that."

"Yeah, I know," he sighed. "I've never been good at the interview thing- talking about myself."

"I gathered," she said with a grin.

He laughed at her good natured ribbing, glad that they seemed to be back to a comfortable place. "Alright," he said, "so how 'bout instead of twenty questions, you let me show you around town tomorrow? You wanna know who I am? it's all here. And I promise to answer whatever doesn't get covered in the tour."

"Deal," she said. Her eyes scanned him from head to toe, before she raised an eyebrow and set her hands on her hips. "I don't have any cowboy boots, though. We're not going to ride any horses or anything like that, are we?"

"I promise to keep you on the ground," he laughed.

"Then I'm in."

 **xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

 **A/N Thanks everyone for your reviews and follow/favs. I'm really enjoying reading them!**


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning Michonne awoke to complete and utter silence. It was so quiet that her mind almost couldn't reconcile the bright sun streaming in, with the lack of any distinguishable signs of morning. No car horns, no construction vehicles, no cabbies hollering at each other-it was almost eerie. She tossed aside the plush duvet that the guest bed had been made up with and set her feet on the wide boards of the knotted pine floor. The room was spacious and had a rustic, farmhouse feel to it, despite having obviously been a more recent addition. She wandered over to one of the arched, floor-to-ceiling windows and pulled aside the drapes to peer out at the rolling amber fields that stretched out behind the house. They were shimmering with dew under the sun's building momentum, and she could already tell whatever fog was still lingering along the plains was sure to burn up before the day even got started.

She couldn't tell if Rick or Carl were up yet, so after a quick trip to the ensuite bathroom, she climbed back into bed and powered on her phone, intending to send a text to Mike and give Andrea the update she was clearly dying for. She already had a handful of messages from her nosy friend, begging her to call and spill all the details of Rick's personal habits.

After her insinuation the night before, she was lucky Rick was still speaking to her. She hadn't thought twice about assuming Carl's mother was just another woman in what she figured was a long line of conquests for someone as handsome and famous as him. He'd graciously accepted her apology, and dinner had been pleasant enough, but she was quick to retire to bed, to sleep off the long day of travel and the guilt she still felt for so casually bringing up something painful to him.

It wasn't the first time she'd uncovered an uncomfortable bit of information in a field of work that demanded absolute candidness, and if Rick's harsh reaction had been out of anger, or mistrust, she would have chalked it up to a professional hazzard. All she heard in his voice was sadness, though, maybe even a little loneliness. She was hoping she could make up for it over the next few days. While she was contemplating how to do that, her phone rang and Andrea's number flashed across her screen.

Michonne rolled her eyes as she answered the call. "Did you get up early just to call me and beg for details?"

"Of course. I have to get ready for work though, so I made a list of the top things on my list, starting with what does he wear to bed?"

"I can't believe you."

"Yes you can, now tell me."

"I don't know, Andrea. I didn't sneak into his room and check."

"Ok, text me that one after breakfast. Two: what does he smell like?"

"Next," she said. Michonne had no intention of admitting that she actually had an answer for that one. When he'd come down from his shower the night before, it was impossible not to notice the lingering scent of soap and suntanned skin drifting from his still-damp body. Andrea hadn't earned that little tidbit though.

"You're ruining this, you know?" her friend whined. "But honestly, what's he like? Is he normal?"

"He really is," she said, still getting used to the idea herself. "He's polite and charming and his son is a sweetheart."

"Charming, huh?"

"In a professional client sort of way."

"Right," Andrea chuckled. "He could charm my pants down around my ankles with a face like that."

"Are you always this crude?"

"Is that a serious question?"

"Look, I have to go," Michonne said, startled by the sounds of life drifting up the stairs that led to her room. "I think I hear them getting up."

"Ok, good. Don't forget question number one. Pictures would be best…"

Michonne hung up the phone before Andrea could finish her ridiculous request. What Rick wore to bed was not part of her research for this story, and was of no concern to her. Her friend really needed to get ahold of herself, she thought, as she went to her suitcase to dress to go downstairs. She slipped a sweatshirt over her head, then put her feet in a pair of flip flops and crept to the door to listen for the sounds of her host walking around downstairs.

When she was sure someone else was awake, she descended the private staircase and made her way into the kitchen. She wasn't prepared to find Rick standing at the kitchen island, wearing only a pair of flannel pajama pants, hanging low on his hips, with his t-shirt slung over his shoulder. She skidded to a stop, swallowing hard as she tried desperately to keep her eyes on his face, instead of allowing them to travel the defined V cut of his lower abs.

"Hey."

"Mornin'" he said with a pleasant grin that put her mind at ease about any lingering tension between them. "I wasn't sure if you were an early riser or not, so I set the coffee maker for dawn. You want some?"

She nodded, and thankfully he took the opportunity to pull his shirt over his head as he shuffled over to the fridge, allowing her brain to refocus.

"Cream and sugar?"

"Both," she said. "Thanks." She watched him pour her a cup of coffee and add the finishing touches. "Is Carl up?"

"No," he said, handing her the cup and getting to work on his own. "Probably not for another hour."

She blew on the steaming hot cup of coffee, before taking a sip. "So, what's on the agenda today?" she asked.

"Well," he said, the corner of his mouth turning upward mischievously, "I promised you no horses, but how do you feel about fish?"

…

Michonne was taking it all well as could be expected, considering she didn't have the proper footwear and the tailored, chino shorts she had packed were already splattered with mud. Rick watched her stretch her legs out on a flat rock, a few feet from his, making the most of the outing by soaking up the warm Georgia sun. She had declined his offer to borrow a pole of her own, choosing instead to be a silent observer as he and Carl cast their lines out into the flowing river, hoping to catch dinner for the evening. Her eyes were hidden behind a dark pair of sunglasses, but he could tell by the round slope of her cheeks that she was content with the relative boredom that came with the day's activity.

He had to admit he didn't expect her to be so agreeable. She'd proved herself to be pleasant company so far, and his original assessment of her required maintenance level had shifted the longer he spent with her, but for a woman who he'd only seen wearing the hell out of an evening gown, while smiling in a sea of tuxedos, he had anticipated far more fussing.

"You doing alright over there?" he called, capturing her attention from whatever it was she was pondering in the peaceful silence.

"I'm great," she said. "How about you? Haven't seen either of you catch anything in quite awhile."

"I play the slowest game in history. I got patience all day long."

She smiled brightly at him, and he noticed the sun shimmering off of the water and her glowing skin was equally mesmerizing. He was reminded of Carol's comments, and he quickly sent his gaze back toward the water.

Michonne hummed a playful response and leaned back onto her hands, tipping her face to the sky. "Aren't there any other people in this town?" she asked. "It's been almost twenty-four hours and I haven't seen another soul."

"Not out here," he said. "That's the best part, right Carl?"

"Yup." Carl jumped at the chance to agree with his assessment and he smiled at his son, happy that he hadn't lost his taste for the serenity of a flowing river in the middle of the country, after growing up surrounded by brick and steel.

"Little while longer," Rick said. "Then we'll head into town and you'll see we haven't completely abandoned civilization."

"I'm in no rush. You two do your thing."

"Aren't you even going to try, Michonne?" Carl glanced at the tackle box beside him, then tossed a questioning look across the little bit of water that separated them. "It's really fun when you catch one."

Rick chuckled at his son's prodding. If anyone had a shot at convincing her, it was him. He'd seen Carl charm a lot of people, from grumpy flight attendants, to the crass old baseball players that hung around the stadium.

She looked like she wanted to turn him down, her expression fluttering between regret and resignation, but she finally pushed off of the rock, scrambling to her feet, and took a few cautious steps in their direction. Rick stood and reached a hand out to her as she gingerly stepped from her rock to theirs.

"I guess it would be a waste for me to be out here all day and not even try to show you boys up," she said.

Rick passed her the pole he was using, and gestured for her to take the spot he had just vacated. He took her hand one more time to help her get into place without disturbing the line. "You got it?" he asked, watching as she stretched her legs out before her and studied Carl's grip.

"Ok, what do I do?"

"Just sit there, really. Try not to jostle the-" He had barely gotten out the instruction when he saw the end of her line shake vigorously, and she jumped in her seat. "You're kidding me," he said, dropping to one knee beside her and grabbing a hold of the pole he had just been standing vigil over for the last two hours.

"What?" She looked at him with a startled expression, as if she thought she'd done something wrong, and he could only laugh.

"Did she catch something?" Carl asked, gleefully.

"I suppose you could say that," Rick said. He helped her position her hands for the best leverage, and began reeling in the line as she held it firm. "Hold on tight, ok?"

Michonne nodded, her brow creased in concentration as she held the pole steady. He could tell whatever had latched onto her bait was going to put up a fight, and he worried that he was about to uncover an eel, or some other monstrous creature that would unnerve her enough to make her let go of the pole. He dropped his other knee to the ground, just behind her, and reached around her shoulders to help her hold on while he reeled in her catch. He realized too late that being this close to her wasn't the best way to maintain his concentration. Her back was pressed against his chest and he could smell the summery scent of coconut in her hair as he leaned over her shoulder to reach the reel.

"Don't let it go, dad!" Carl yelled, bringing his focus back to the task at hand. He shifted to a better position, where he couldn't feel the swell of her hips pressed between his leg, and pulled on the line.

After a grand tug of war, one of the largest freshwater bass he'd ever seen in person came flying and flailing out of the water, dancing in mid-air as he reeled it in. Michonne let out an adorable squeal that was half horror and half excitement. She let go of the pole, just as he knew she would, and he fell backwards onto his ass as he hauled the winning catch onto the rock. Carl was doubled over in laughter as they both watched Michonne scramble away from the slimy fish that was wiggling around on the rock, nearly falling into the water herself in her attempt to escape.

"That is some catch!" he said, still stunned.

"I didn't know fish came that big!"

"You know this is just beginners luck," he teased, and she dissolved into a fit of genuine giggling that had his own laughter ticking up to a roar. She met his eyes as they both caught their breath, locking them in what felt like a private moment, even though he could hear Carl still laughing beside him.

"Well, we might as well pack it up," Rick said, finally tearing his eyes away. "Dinner is taken care of, and then some."

"Nice job, Michonne," Carl said, holding his little hand up to her for a high-five. The surprise finally left her face, and she smiled confidently at him, meeting his palm with hers.

"So now what?" she asked.

"Now we put it on ice with the little appetizers me and Carl caught, and we go into town and have some lunch."

"That sounds good," she said, using the back of her hand to wipe away the light sheen of perspiration that had gathered on her forehead. "I think I've had enough for the day."

…

Michonne and Carl meandered along the brick sidewalks of the little downtown area, with Rick a few steps ahead, leading them to what he had promised was the best cafe in town. She was pretty sure he meant the only one, but she had worked up enough of an appetite that she didn't care where they ate, as long as the food had already been caught.

For having only spent short periods of time here, Carl knew the terrain well. He pointed out an ice cream shop, and the post office, even a little one-screen movie theater that she wasn't sure was still in operation based on the missing letters on the sign. She was enjoying getting to know the place via the six-year old tour, when she noticed Rick slow down ahead of them as a handful of teenagers wearing baseball uniforms marked with the local high school's logo came filing out of the cafe they were approaching. They stopped short as soon as they recognized him, their faces lighting up as Rick greeted them with a genuine smile. He casually set his hands on his hips, inquiring as to how their season was going so far, and the three of them talked over each other, their giddiness overflowing as he indulged them.

"Do you think we could get an autograph?" one of them asked, his hands shaking as he rummaged through his backpack for something to write on.

"Of course," Rick said. He pat down his pockets for a pen, but came up short.

Michonne reached into her purse, where she always had a plethora stashed away, and handed him one. He thanked her with a smile, taking the baseball the kid had produced and signing his name, then moving on to the items the two others had selected. He chatted with them a few moments longer, asking about school and wishing them luck on their season, then they ran off in an excited flurry, smiles beaming from their faces.

"You made their day." Michonne stepped closer to him, taking in the matching smile that graced his face, and nudged him playfully with her elbow.

"Yeah," he said. "I don't get to do that much. It's the best part, really."

"You must get hounded for autographs at every game!" she replied, dubiously.

Carl stepped around their conversation, opening the door to the restaurant and taking off to find an acceptable booth. "It's mostly sharks on the field these days," Rick said, holding the door for her to follow.

"Sharks?"

"Autograph sharks. They're out there shoving past the kids and families, trying to get something signed so they can sell it. It's not the same as running into kids like that; getting a chance to talk to 'em. I prefer it to having microphones shoved in my face, and being swarmed by the media."

"I see," she said, contemplating getting out her notebook. This was the type of conversation that she could run with for the story, but she didn't want him to clam up once she went into reporter mode. She followed him to the booth where Carl had already set up, choosing instead to keep notes in her head. "So the attention isn't appealing to you? The fame?"

"Nah, that's not my thing. That's why I like being back here. Even when they recognize me, they still treat me like a regular person."

She slid into the seat next to Carl, while Rick took the chair across from them. "So you grew up in town, played ball for the local high school, then what? Did you always know you wanted to go pro?"

"No. I wasn't ever a consideration 'till I started playing in college. 'Round here it's hard to get any attention from the big leagues. This place barely exists on a map."

"So what did you go to school for, then? What was your original plan?"

"I was planning on being a cop."

"A cop, huh? Like your dad?" She couldn't help herself any longer, finally shuffling through her bag for her notebook. It seemed like he was going to keep his promise to fill in the blanks, and as much as she enjoyed just hanging out with the two of them, she was here for a reason.

"It was my plan," he said, picking up the menus from the stand in the center of the table, and handing them out. "Get a degree, go to the academy, follow in my father's footsteps."

"So what did your parents think when your plans changed?"

"My mom was gone by then. Passed away when I was a kid." He glanced at Carl and she noted the two had that in common. "My dad wasn't too happy. Thought baseball was a fickle living. He always said nothing worth anything in life should come easy, and being paid to play a game is easy."

"So he thought you were making the wrong choice?"

"I guess so," he shrugged. "But who really knows the way when they're twenty?"

"Or twenty-six," she smiled.

"This isn't what you want to do with your life?"

"Journalism is. I've just never been sure what route to take with it. That's why I'm freelancing."

"Well, maybe this will be the thing that turns you into a sports writer," he kidded.

She rolled her eyes at the thought. Hanging around the teams with Mike was enough; she couldn't imagine that being her full time gig. Though, Rick was changing her mind a little bit. "That's doubtful," she shot back. "So your dad, is he still around?"

"No, he passed away a few years back. Saw me play in my first game in the majors, then saw me get sent back down when I hurt my arm. I always thought that was when we'd agree on it- when he saw making it as a pro was anything but easy, but he took it as a sign I'd tried and failed." He paused then, as if recalling a moment in time that was never far from reach.

"I'm sure he knew you'd be back."

"Maybe," he sighed. "It is what it is. My real regret is that he never got to meet Carl." He nodded toward his son, his previous dour expression replaced by something much happier. "I know he woulda been proud of me for him."

She had been avoiding the topic of Carl's birth like the plague since the night before, but the segue was too easy to ignore. Rick knew it too, by the way he looked at her-he was bracing himself. They both knew she couldn't write a story about his life without including how he came to be a single father, but for some reason she knew he was going to hold out as long as he could before sharing that story with her.

Almost as if Rick had beckoned her with his sheer will, the waitress interrupted them before Michonne could finally ask the million dollar question. The grey-haired woman greeted them with a perky 'good afternoon' and the loud smack of bubble gum as she grinned. "What'll y'all have?" she asked.

Rick smiled at the interruption, looking as if he'd just pulled a get out of jail free card. "What's the special?" he asked.

The woman pointed to a chalkboard on the wall behind her as she replied, "Fish."

Michonne rolled her eyes as Carl began giggling again. "I'll have a salad."

…

By the time lunch was finished, mid-day had turned to late afternoon. Michonne realized she hadn't even thought to check her phone since she left the house that morning and, in her haste to get Andrea off the call earlier, she'd completely forgotten to touch base with Mike. She probably had a full inbox to contend with and she wasn't looking forward to plugging back in after the little reprieve.

Rick was perusing the dessert menu, to Carl's delight, so she used the opportunity to excuse herself. "I'm going to step outside for a moment," she said, standing from the booth and stretching her arms out in front of her. "I just need to check in with a few people."

"You want me to order you something?" he asked, offering her a look at his menu.

"No. I need to save room for all that fish we're going to eat later."

"Alright," he said. "Take your time. Carl and I are ordering sundaes."

Carl pumped his fist in the air at his dad's confirmation and she almost changed her mind, but duty called.

She wandered outside to a small patio, where metal cafe tables were arranged inside a roped off semi-circle. Choosing a seat, she pulled out her phone and her notebook. She was greeted with a few work-related emails about some of her other assignments, which she quickly dealt with, then she dug into the text messages that she had been avoiding from Andrea, each more demanding than the last.

" _Still waiting on that morning cowboy pic..."_

Delete.

" _Remember that time I hooked up with that lead singer of that band you liked, and I got you an autograph? You OWE me."_

Delete.

" _MICHONNE!"_

Delete.

She finally made her way to the end of the list, a little perturbed that none of the correspondence she had waded through had come from Mike, since he hadn't heard from her in almost twenty-four hours. She supposed she should be glad he'd dropped his contention over her staying with Rick. The last thing she needed was more guilt between her and her story. She'd already given herself enough of that with her misstep the night before. Now, hearing Rick talk about the rigors of living with fame, she was reminded how she'd also been less than truthful about enjoying that lifestyle with Mike. By not admitting that she felt that way herself, like she was stuck in a life that was full of gold that only shimmered for other people, she'd allowed him to go on thinking he was alone. She was going to have to remedy that mistruth.

She sent Mike a quick message to let him know she was alive and well, then meandered over to the day's headlines while she waited for his response. The first thing that popped up on the front page was a picture of John Negan. Curious, she clicked on the article and began reading an interview he'd done the day before, her heartbeat ticking up with every line she consumed. Unlike Rick, instead of hiding out somewhere until his suspension was over, Negan had seized the opportunity to get in front of the local sports writers on his own terms, and apparently not even the stern warning from Hershel had convinced him to keep his mouth shut. There was an entire article dedicated to his ramblings on what he referred to as the tense atmosphere in the clubhouse at his new team and what, according to him, was a top down attitude that stemmed from the management, and team captain, Rick Grimes.

She turned over her shoulder, peering inside the large window on the front of the cafe. She could see Rick and Carl at the table, smiling and chatting as Carl worked on a dish of ice cream big enough for two of him. She rubbed at her temples, preparing to have to take the news to Rick. He'd been wearing a smile so genuine the entire day, that it broke her heart to have to be the one to ruin it with news from home. It had only been a short time, but she was already feeling a certain partnership with him, a vested interest in helping him overcome this situation, and this wasn't going to help either of their goals.

Standing reluctantly, and making her way back inside, she pulled out her phone, glancing at Carl before silently handing it over for Rick to read.

"Looks like it was yesterday," she said, watching as his eyes narrowed the further down the page he scrolled.

Just as she'd expected, the smile drained from his face and she could almost almost hear his teeth grinding. "This is a bunch of bull shit," he said, causing Carl's little head to pop up in surprise. "He's the one who can't get along with anyone."

"What do you think Hershel will do?"

"He can't do much of anything. The guy's already suspended. He takes any more action it's gonna look like he's trying to silence him, like he's got something to hide."

"I'm sorry," she said. His mood had soured significantly in a matter of moments and she wondered if maybe she should have just let him go on being oblivious.

"This is the route Hershel wanted to go," he said, tossing her phone on the table and running a hand over his eyes. "Unfortunately that means biding my time and watching Negan do his thang while I bank on some long shot. I can't say as I'm completely sure it was a good idea."

"Maybe not," she said, the obvious implication stinging a bit.

He looked at her then, his face softening. "Sorry. I just meant waiting."

"No, you're right. It's a gamble, but you've already taken it and there's no going back. If you tried to meet him head to head now, it would just look reactionary, like you said. So let's just focus on what we're here to do." She reached for his hand on the table, squeezing his fingers, and the contact seemed to soothe him a bit, his shoulders loosening as he leaned back in his chair.

"Alright," he agreed. He turned his palm upward then, squeezing her back, and her stomach startled her with the way it cartwheeled without her permission.

She pulled her hand back, shoving it safely in her pocket. "Try not to worry about him for now."

With a nod, he dropped his own hand to his side, looking as if he might have felt the same thing. "You ready to head back?" he asked. "We gotta get that fish of yours cleaned and prepped." He tossed Carl a napkin, and gave him the signal to finish up.

"Sure." The hot sun and large meal had her longing for a quiet nap, and by the looks of it, Carl was tuckered out as well.

Rick picked up the little black book that the waitress had dropped off, heading over to the counter to pay. "Wait," she said, grabbing her purse and following after him.

"I got it," he said with an amused smile.

"You're not going to pay for my meals."

Rick laughed as if she'd made a joke and kept walking.

"Hershel is already paying me to be here, Rick."

"Yeah, well, that suspension came with a pretty big fine, so technically I'm paying for you to be here. Think of this as part of your compensation. You have no expenses while you're here, ok?"

"Fine," she said. "But if you're going to be paying for everything, you're going to have to at least let me do some cooking."

"You didn't like the chicken last night?" he asked, feigning a wounded ego.

"It was great, but I like cooking. Being in the kitchen with a glass of wine and some music on, putting together a good meal, it's one of my favorite ways to spend an evening."

He was staring at her with a smile that made the blood rush to her cheeks, and she wondered if she had made the whole thing sound just a little too romantic, like she had just unwittingly asked him for a date in his own house. "I mean, we have to eat…"

"It's a deal," he said. "You wanna clean the fish too?"

"That's all yours," she said, thankful for the levity he brought back to the conversation.

"All right then. There's a grocery store on the next block. We'll pick up a few things on the way home."

"Great." She watched him walk away, her eyes drifting to the bow in his gait that gave him a certain undeniable swagger, then scolded herself for the peek. This had to be Andrea's fault, she thought. Her inappropriate comments were getting in the way of her professional dealings; she was going to have to cut off her friend for the remainder of the trip. She picked up her phone, ready to put all Andrea chats on mute, when it occurred to her she still hadn't heard back from Mike.

…

"You really are enjoying this," Rick said, as he handed Michonne a bowl of garlic that he had been in charge of mincing. She was on her second glass of wine, and was fiddling with the remote to his stereo system, increasing the volume on the classic rock station they had compromised on.

She swayed her hips back and forth to the beat, as she spun around to take the ingredient from him. "I told you," she said. "This is my kind of night." She waved a hand over her outfit: bare feet and a pair of cut off shorts that had replaced her mud-splattered ones from before. She'd changed her t-shirt too, he noticed, this one just a little thinner than the last one, giving him a peek at the black bra she wore underneath. "Comfortable clothes, food that actually tastes as good as it looks."

"That's yet to be determined," he joked, earning him a playful scowl that he thoroughly enjoyed. He took a seat at the kitchen island, sipping a beer and watching her work. "But I thought you said you liked the fancy nights out."

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head with a bashful smile. "I lied," she said as if she were confessing to a crime. "Truth is, I do it for Mike. That's his world."

"Wow, that's a lot of work," he said. "You must really love him." He peered at her over the end of his bottle, watching her reaction to his pointed observation. He shouldn't be prying, he knew that, but he'd been on the other end of the questions all day- it was only fair. Plus, he found he really wanted to know.

She turned her back to him, mumbling over her shoulder. "We've been together a long time," she said. It wasn't the answer to the question he'd asked, and he took it as a sign to mind his own business. He was surprised, however, when she continued, breaking it down for him as she hovered over the frying pan she was working with. "When we first met, I was drawn to him because he was established in the field I was working to break into," she explained. "We were friends for awhile first. We started dating around the same time he got the job he has now. It was...convenient. Not that I used him-" She glanced at him, making sure he understood, before going back to the pan. "I made all of my own contacts myself. But, we ran in the same circle, both had journalism backgrounds. His just took him in a fancier direction, I guess. So I followed."

Rick nodded. He understood how that lifestyle had a way of creeping up on you before you knew it, until one day you found yourself surrounded by a group of people who only knew the cleaned-up version of you, and no one who really cared who you were underneath.

"That party I was at," he said, "where the thang with Jessie happened, it was the first one I'd been to in a long time. It's not my scene either- the big nights out, the media. I thought Jessie might enjoy it, though. Guess I was right, but that type of thing can change people. That's why I work real hard to avoid it most of the time."

"That's what Hershel told me about you," she said. "He told me you were a good egg."

"Did he now?" Rick chuckled at the old man's persistent soft side. He'd given him hell in his office over the fight, and it amused him that he'd turned around and sung his praises with the same breath.

"That's how he convinced me to take this job, actually. I told you sports isn't really my thing, but he promised me you were different and this whole thing with Negan was a one off. 'Course I'm still trying to figure out how he convinced me to fly to Georgia with you, but it's going better than I thought."

Rick had to agree with her assessment as he watched her move around his kitchen, entertaining him with a few bars of "Sweet Home Alabama", and all in all being a welcome addition to his vacation. She caught his eye and smiled a spirited grin that he returned, before letting his eyes fall to the back of her toned thighs as she twirled. "For having a reporter follow me around twenty-four hours a day," he said, "it's going better than I thought too."

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 **Thanks everyone for all your follows and favs and especially the reviews! They really make pumping these chapters out really fun!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hi everyone. I've been working on a longer chapter of this, but the word count got out of hand, so I split it into two. The next update should come soon, because it's almost all written :) Thanks for reading and reviewing!**

 **xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The two days following Negan's interview had been full of everything Rick had come home to avoid. Emails from Hershel, phone calls from his agent looking for a statement to hold off the reporters, even his teammates were sending him updates on the gossip flying through the dugout in his absence. It seemed Negan's trash talk had everyone on edge, and with Rick in an effective time out, there was a lack of cooler heads to prevail-if he could still be considered that. To top it all off, the team was on a three day away game stretch to Negan's old home stadium, and the altercation had tensions even higher between the two rival franchises. The media was all over it, and it had become near impossible to escape, even in the middle of nowhere.

Rick was in his bedroom packing a bag, and looking forward to the current day's activity- baseball in the park with Carl-when his cell phone rang for what had to be the hundredth call of the day. He knew it was Carol; he'd already spoken to everyone else he knew that morning. He'd been avoiding her calls when he was with Michonne, because he was afraid she might say something that he would wouldn't want to be overheard. She was still in her own room getting dressed, though, so he figured it was safe.

"Hi Carol," he answered.

"Finally," she said, a smirk evident in her tone. "You've been impossible to reach. How's everything going?"

"Fine. Everything is fine."

"You've been ignoring my calls."

"I haven't," he lied. "We've just been busy. Taking Carl out, showing Michonne around town."

"You mean showing her off?" she chuckled. He could practically see her grey eyes crinkling mischievously on the other end of the line.

"Carol…"

"Are you two getting to know each other?"

"That's what she's here to do," he said, idly tossing a ball he was about to pack, to occupy his hands.

"But I mean getting to _know_ each other…"

Rick sighed at the inevitable turn in the conversation. He stopped his game with the ball, sitting down on his bed and rubbing at his temples. "Carol, we've been over this. She has a boyfriend."

"And you had a girlfriend last week. Things change."

"For guys like Negan, maybe."

"Oh Rick, I'm not saying screw her in a hot tub. Just don't be a grouch."

"I'm not being a grouch," he defended, truthfully. Somehow Michonne managed to soothe any emerging grouchiness in him before it gained any traction. He was coming to realize that despite his initial worry that having her around on this trip would make it difficult to relax, her presence was helping him do just that. She was funny and easy-going, sweet and good with Carl, and she seemed to innately know when the current situation had him on the edge, and always had a joke or a comforting smile at the ready to keep him from boiling over. "I'm being perfectly charming," he said.

"Good. Does Carl like her?"

"Yes, they're getting along well too."

"Well, I saw the thing with Negan on television. She's got her work cut out for her. I hope you're being cooperative as well as charming."

"Why would I not be cooperative?"

"Rick, I know you don't like letting people into your private life, and I completely respect that, but this is important. Just do what you need to do to make this go away."

"Yeah, alright," he said. He was growing weary of the conversation when he heard a quiet knock on the door

"Come in," he said, covering the receiver with his hand, and assuming it was Carl. To his surprise, Michonne poked her head around the door. He smiled when he saw her with her hair tied up on top of her head, and a pair of cropped sweatpants on her lower half. She even had sneakers on, though they looked like they were the type bought more for fashion than for performance.

"Hey," she said, wearing that smile that continued to tease him. "Carl was asking for a snack before we go. Is it alright if I make him one?"

"Of course," he said, "But you don't have to make it. I can do it."

"It's no trouble. I'll see you in a few."

"OK...yeah...I'll be right down."

"You two sound awfully cozy," Carol said when he brought the phone back to his ear. "I guess I'll leave you to your afternoon."

"Thanks," he said, narrowing his eyes, even though he knew she couldn't see him.

"Text me an update?"

"Good bye, Carol," he said, ending the call and shoving his phone in the pocket of his team-issued warm up pants. He grabbed the bag he had been stuffing, and took off toward the door, stopping briefly when he passed the mirror hanging over his dresser. He took off the cap he was wearing, running his hand through his hair to make sure it was all in place, before quickly putting it back on and cursing his friend.

When he came around the corner to the kitchen, Carl was seated at the table, and Michonne was spreading peanut butter onto some crackers and placing them on a plate.

"You look like you're ready to play," he said, taking another peek at her outfit. "Not gonna stay on the sidelines today?"

"Last time you challenged me to a _sport_ ," she said, using her fingers to assign questionable validity to the word, "I found out how good of a fisherman I am. Maybe today I find out I'm the next Rick Grimes."

Rick chuckled at her joke, enjoying the comfortable way she teased him. He enjoyed most everything about her, though, if he were honest, which made Carol's comments all more difficult to refute. "I guess we'll see," he replied. "I got you a glove from the garage. It's gonna be too big, but I found a bat that's a good size for you."

He noticed her confident smile wavered adorably at the actual details of the activity. "I'll take it easy on you," he said.

"No fastballs."

"Nah, nothin' fancy. I promise."

She sighed and looked at Carl. "This is going to be an adventure."

…

Michonne wasn't sure why she was surprised, after three days of being on the outer edge of civilization, that the town's baseball field was carved out of one corner of a wide open cow field. Rick and Carl had been dragging her all over town since they arrived, partaking in every countrified activity the two of them could dream up, but she had to admit she was enjoying every minute of it and she had a feeling this would be more of the same.

Rick pulled over on the edge of the road and got out to gather the equipment from the back of his rental, while she took inventory of the scenery. Carl jumped out of the backseat, his little legs taking off like a shot toward the horizon and coming to a skidding stop when he got to the poorly mowed baselines and dusty base bags of the little field.

Michonne reached into the bag she had brought, searching for her sunglasses to help with the glare of the hazy day, and she felt her phone vibrating from somewhere in the bottom of the enormous tote. When she finally located it, she was surprised to see a missed call from her boyfriend, whom she had yet to connect with since she'd left.

"You sure you're up for this?" Rick asked, capturing her attention away from the screen, and resting his tanned forearm on her open window.

She rolled her eyes at the challenge, and he opened the door, offering her a hand as she hopped down from the large SUV.

"I just have to make a quick call," she said. He shut the door behind her and she leaned up against it, pointing at him with her phone. "Then it's on."

"Alright," he said with a drawl that kept getting thicker the longer they were there. His eyes dragged the length of her, like they had been doing more often over the last couple days, and she felt that flutter again- the one in her belly that she'd been trying to ignore since the cafe.

Despite cutting Andrea off, she still couldn't shake it. Being with Rick on his own turf had only helped her to realize how wrong she was about him from the start, and how much the two of them had in common. True to his word, he'd told her all about his childhood, his friends, his career, and in turn she'd let him take the lead on how and when he shared the information. Usually that meant anecdotes given over the course of whatever they had on the agenda for the day, or swapping stories over a beer after Carl went to bed. He'd successfully avoided the standard question and answer session, and it was hard to deny that getting to know him was feeling less like a job and more like something she wanted to do more of.

She couldn't help but wonder what might have happened if Hershel had introduced the two of them sooner, under different circumstances.

Then there was also the fact that she was having a hard time keeping her eyes off of him; the way his biceps stretched the tight t-shirts he wore, the way he carried himself with quiet confidence that never crossed the line into arrogance. He was classically handsome, and his clear blue eyes seemed to hold such depth, so much more emotion than his habit of few words betrayed. She knew exactly where her reaction to him came from, what she didn't know was how to stop it.

It didn't help that she'd been playing a long game of phone tag with Mike, having yet to actually speak to him. A voicemail, a text promising to call, followed by another one apologizing for not being able to; they just kept missing each other. She knew it was a busy week for him. The end of April had three sports seasons overlapping, with hockey and basketball in the playoffs, and baseball gearing up. She wasn't blaming him, it was just that being out of touch with him for so long had a little voice inside her head asking her if she really missed him all that much.

The truth was, she was glad for the unexpected holiday. This week would have been hell for her at home, with all of the games, and parties, and press events. She couldn't help but think the week that she was having there would have been worse for Mike- cooking their own food, movies in their pajamas. She'd spent the previous night playing a rousing game of UNO with Rick and Carl, and she couldn't remember a time she'd laughed that genuinely- Mike would have been bored out of his mind.

She dialed her voicemail, feeling a little guilty over her relief at missing the call. She wouldn't have wanted to talk to him in front of Rick. Even the way she spoke when she was with Mike felt false to her now- formal- and she had a feeling Rick would have picked up on it immediately, and thought maybe she was no different than the other women he met who were always playing a part. She didn't know why she cared.

Mike's voice came over the line, smooth, and sexy, and everything she once found so appealing about him. "Hey, Miche," he said. "Missed you again. It was a wild night last night. I'm just getting to bed, actually. I hope you're not going stir crazy." He laughed then, and it sent a jolt of irritation into her gut. "I'll call you later if I can. Game three tonight, baby!"

She hung up the call before his celebratory cheer ended, and looked out over the horizon, pondering all the feelings that were battling within her.

The sky was slowly turning from blue to a dove grey, as the clouds settled in to keep them comfortable in a place where there was no hope of any shade, and Rick was kneeling in front of the duffle bag he had packed, digging out gloves, and bats, and balls, and laying them on the ground before him. There was a slight breeze in the air, and she watched it rustle and lift the curls poking out of the back of his hat, as he looked up at Carl with a wide smile. He turned his gaze toward her then, beckoning her to them with a tilt of his head, and she tossed the phone into the truck, deciding against calling Mike back and waking him, and instead hustling out to where Rick and Carl were waiting for her.

"Sorry," she called, as she came to make a circle with them. "How's this going to work?"

"It's alright," he said. "I thought Carl could bat first. You okay catching behind the plate?"

"What do I have to do?"

He looked at her questioningly, his mouth turned up in a smirk that he was trying to contain. "You really don't know anything about baseball, do you?"

"I told you I didn't."

"Yeah, but I thought you were exaggeratin'. Between Hershel and Mike, you never watched a game?"

"Sure I've watched one before, but that doesn't mean I know how to play."

"Alright," he said, shaking his head. "Change of plans. Carl, you're catching. We're gonna start Michonne out batting."

Carl grabbed a glove and hurried off, content with his assignment, but she could feel her own timidness showing on her face. Rick had obviously caught it too, as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and chuckled, leading her to home plate.

"I'll talk you through it," he said. "And I promise a nice slow pitch."

Rick selected a bat for her, giving her some basic instructions on how to hold it, then gently positioned her shoulders, lifting her elbow with two fingers until she demonstrated the angle he was looking for.

"You ready?" he asked, walking backwards until he landed on the pitcher's mound.

"Sure," she said, bending her knees like he had said, and trying to remember what he said to do after that.

She watched as Rick pawed at the ground with his foot, kicking up a cloud of dust around him, and Carl squatted behind her expertly, reminding her that the six-year old was already better than her at this.

When he was done with his warm-up routine, he winker at Carl, then reached backwards with the ball laying in his upturned palm.

Michonne was pretty sure she'd seen a pitcher wind up before; sure enough that she knew that was not what Rick was doing as she watched him get ready to throw. Sure enough, instead of pitching it to her, he tossed the ball underhand, giving it just enough force to send it gently sailing over the plate.

She let the ball fall into Carl's open glove, stepping out of the box and setting her hands on her hips. "Really?" she asked, with a raised brow.

"It's your first time," he shrugged.

"I said no fast balls. I didn't mean you had to lob them in. Show me what you got."

"You do realize I'm somewhat of a pro at this," he joked. "I don't think you want to see what I got."

"Try me, cowboy." She winked at him, and he sent back a cocky smile that made her think twice about the trash talk, and her ability to perform physical activity while staring straight at him. A little less sure, she stepped back into the box and Carl tossed the ball back to him.

"You're lucky my kid's behind the plate," he said, lifting his front knee to his chest, and pulling back as if he was about to let loose. Then, with a snap of his fingers, he commanded the ball to follow a wide arc. She watched it come in high and tight then, at the last minute, drop into the strike zone, too late for her to see it, let alone swing at it.

Rick was grinning from ear to ear as Carl snatched it out of the air before the pitch even registered on her radar.

"Nice one," she offered politely, stepping back into her stance and lifting the bat over her shoulder. "Show me something else."

"This won't be much of a lesson if you're gonna keep challenging me," he said, spinning the ball in his hand, and adjusting his grip. He wound up again and this time the ball shot straight toward the plate, then, like a magic trick, it somehow slid right out of her bat's reach just as she swung. She missed it by a mile.

She muttered a curse word under her breath, and Rick was clearly amused.

"Dad!" Carl yelled, trapping the ball in his little mitt. "Let her hit one."

"Yeah," she agreed. "I've seen what you can do. Now, throw me one I can hit."

"I don't know if I got anything like that."

"Cute."

"Alright, alright. But you gotta keep your elbow up, and choke up a little on the bat."

She tried to follow, but he shook his head and trotted over to her. "Here," he said, standing behind her and covering her hands with his. He slid them up the wooden bat until he was satisfied with her grip, then he dropped his hands to her hips, her heart rate speeding up as his fingers pressed into her flesh. He turned her until she was square with the mound, and she could feel his thigh pressed against her backside, as he kept one hand on her hip, and used the other to push her elbow upward.

"Right there," he said, his face so close to hers that she could smell the peppermint gum he was chewing. "Hold it like that, and swing just before you think the ball is within your reach. Oh and keep your eyes open."

"What?" she asked, feeling just as flustered when the heat of his hand left her side, as she did with him pressed into her back.

"I said, keep your eyes open," he repeated, hurrying back to the mound. "You're closin' 'em when your bat comes around. You have to watch it the whole time. See it connect."

She nodded, still focused on the way his hands felt on her body, and the way his broad shoulders easily wrapped around hers.

"You can do it, Michonne," Carl said, getting back into position. "Just do like dad said."

Rick studied her, obviously pleased with her new and improved form, then he wound up slowly, releasing a moderately paced ball that flew a straight path, easily within her reach. She did as he said, swinging just before her gut told her to, but she still only felt a gush of wind, instead of the satisfying crack she was hoping for.

Rick motioned for Carl to toss him the ball again. "Keep your eyes open," he reminded her. He had shifted his playful tone, his direction now gentle and supportive. "I'm going to put it in the exact same place as last time, just watch it the whole time."

Michonne agreed, and got into position. She could tell by the way he looked at Carl that he was going to keep his promise, and this time when he threw it, she watched the white and red spin toward her until it was just in front of the plate. She swung the bat around, connecting with the ball and sending it sailing high over Rick's head, straight into centerfield, where it finally dropped and kept on rolling.

"Run, Michonne," Carl yelled from behind her, and she noticed Rick had taken off in the direction of the ball, his sneakers kicking up dirt behind him as he sprinted toward the short, chain-link fence where the ball had settled.

Carl was pointing out the direction she should go, and she ran as fast as she could to the first white square she saw. She jumped onto it, then looked back to see Carl waving his arm wildly in the direction of the next one, so she kept going.

Rick had scooped the ball up at this point, and was running to the same spot as she was. She got there first, tagging the base with her foot and, without even looking to Carl for guidance, she spotted the next one and booked it. Rick pivoted too, darting toward her as she headed toward third. She was barely halfway there, when she felt his arm hook around her waist, lifting her into the air as her feet kicked, searching for the traction they lost.

"Hey!" she squealed. "What are you doing?"

"Out!" he said with a wide smile, tapping her shoulder with his glove, as he set her back down on the dirt. "You got greedy. Shoulda stayed on second."

Michonne panted through the pout that had appeared on her lips. "I think we need to go over the rules."

"It was a nice hit," he said. "We'll work on base running another day."

She felt a little rush at the idea of spending more days like this with the him and Carl, but the feeling quickly faded when the logistics of the suggestion began to take shape. Once they left this place, and went back to their real lives, she wondered how an outing like that would come about. The idea that this was some fleeting friendship settled onto her brain and quickly stole the smile from her face.

Carl met them at the plate with the bat Michonne had tossed aside, and she reached down to grab the glove Rick had packed for her, ready to take a turn fielding, when a cold splash of water landed on her forehead. Rick held out his hand and tipped his head to the sky, having felt the same, and before either of them could say a word, the drops tripled in size and frequency, dimpling the dirt of the baseline with their force.

"Looks like we have a rain delay," he said, glancing at the truck. It was a ways off, and this had none of the makings of a quick shower. Rick slipped off the hooded sweatshirt he had been wearing and handed it to Michonne to cover her head, as the low rumble of distant thunder sounded from the sky above the fields beyond them.

"I'll get the stuff," he said over the increasing volume of the rain. He fished his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to her. "You and Carl go get dry."

"Ok," she replied, tucking the boy under her arm. They broke out into a sprint toward the road, the sky darkening by the second. She glanced behind her to see Rick, tossing all of the equipment back into the bag and hoisting it over his shoulder.

He met them at the truck just as she was helping Carl into the backseat. The front of his white t-shirt had soaked through, revealing the toned cut of his pecs, and all of the confliction she had been battling when they'd arrived came rushing back.

He tossed the stuff in the back of the truck, closing the tailgate with a thud, then looked at her curiously, as she stood there getting pelted with rain drops instead of seeking the shelter of the vehicle. "You ready?" he asked.

It was the second time he'd asked her that that day, and somehow, no matter what he was referring to, she didn't think she was.


	6. Chapter 6

The rain that had cancelled their baseball game was still alternating between soft drizzle and heavy sheets that beat against the window panes, keeping them inside for the remainder of the day. When they had arrived home, they'd all dried off and changed into warmer clothes, and they'd been occupying the living room furniture ever since.

Carl was sprawled out on the carpet in front of the fireplace, using the remote to flip through the never-ending catalogue of movies Rick's multiple subscriptions afforded them. Michonne sat on the corner of the couch, with her knees pulled into her chest, and her thumbnail between her teeth, as she studied the titles. The two of them had worked out a deal on the drive home that had Michonne getting her own night to choose the entertainment. In return, she would share the stash of penny candy she had purchased at the local five and dime on their last trip to town.

Rick puttered around the kitchen, cleaning up after the casual grilled cheese and soup dinner they'd recently finished. He didn't pay much mind to the movie options- whatever the two of them chose would be fine with him- instead he was watching Michonne out of the corner of his eye. She had been acting differently ever since they'd left the field, as if a heavy weight had settled on her. The car ride back had been unusually quiet, and even the frequent smiles she offered seemed restrained. He realized that, even after just a few days, he had become accustomed to her lightness, enough so that he was beginning to miss it since her demeanor had shifted.

He hoped he hadn't been too forward earlier at the field, he thought, rinsing a plate in the sink, and stealing another glance at her. He had to admit he had taken a few opportunities to touch her when he hadn't needed to; to explore the warmth of her skin, and the soft curve of her hip. He couldn't help himself, and now he was feeling guilty for his indulgence. Maybe it was all of the personal information he had divulged to her over the past few days, but he was beginning to feel like they were forming a friendship that wasn't all in the name of their professional arrangement. He didn't want to jeopardize that by stepping out of line, even if out of line felt like exactly where he wanted to be.

Carol's phone call that morning had been like a call from the back of his brain, where he'd been hiding his growing attraction to her. He'd denied it as best he could, but neither Carol, nor his gut was having any of it. Watching Michonne now, laughing with Carl and sitting comfortably on his couch in her pajamas, like she belonged there, was testing his resolve again. Michonne wasn't free for him to touch though, or flirt with, or watch out of the corner of his eye the way he was doing right now, and the last thing he wanted was to be the reason for her change in mood. He finished his task in the kitchen and dried his hands off on a towel, then made his way in to test the waters.

"Did you pick one?" he asked her, gesturing to the TV. "Since Carl is being so generous tonight."

"It's a hard decision," she said, grinning at him. "Movie night is my favorite, so I don't want to pick a dud."

"Good call," he said, plopping down beside her. "We keep finding hidden talents of yours while you're here. Wouldn't want to end your streak by ruining movie night for the kid."

"Wow. No pressure!" she said, sending a playful jab to his arm that set him at ease. Whatever it was that had settled on her mind, it didn't seem to be his behavior, and he was glad for it.

"Nah, he ain't that picky," he said, gesturing to Carl. "But I have excellent taste in movies, so it'll take a lot to impress me."

"Dad falls asleep during all my movies," Carl chimed in from the floor.

"So by impress you, you mean keep you awake."

Rick shrugged. "Guess it's your job to keep me up tonight. If you think you're up for it."

If her skin tone would have allowed it, he was sure her cheeks would have reddened at the flirtatious way his comment had inadvertently come out. Instead her eyes widened and she bit her bottom lip to hold in a smile. Despite her sheepish reaction, she fired a response right back. "I like my odds," she said with a coquettish bat of her eyelashes, then as if she had surprised herself, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat and averted her eyes.

Nudging Carl with her foot, she gestured for the remote and quickly clicked on a title. "This one," she said, with a newly summoned confidence. Rick flicked off the table lamp beside him, and settled in for the evening's entertainment, feeling not the least bit sleepy.

 **...**

Two hours later, Rick sat staring at Michonne from across the couch, trying and failing to conceal the smirk that wanted to creep onto his lips, as he watched her bury her head in a throw pillow. The movie she chose was absolutely, completely, one hundred percent, a flop.

"You were so sure," he said, a laugh escaping him.

Michonne groaned into the pillow, then lifted her head to look at him. "It got really good reviews…" she defended, and he laughed harder.

"Carl couldn't even finish it." He pointed at his son, passed out in the arm chair across from them, and her groaning turned to giggling. "You bored him to sleep."

"You're right," she said. "I've lost my movie choosing privileges."

"Let's not be harsh. We're just going to suspend you."

Michonne laughed at his joke, tossing the pillow in his direction. "Maybe Hershel will hire someone to get me back in your good graces," she said.

"Let's hope, for your sake, he gets someone good."

"Let's hope."

She kept her smile aimed at him for another moment, and he felt his pulse begin to tick up the way it did when he was sure she was reading his mind. He didn't know if she should see the thoughts that were beginning to form in his head right then though, so he turned his attention back to Carl.

"I'm gonna put him to bed," he said, watching her face in hopes she wouldn't decide to turn in herself just yet. He was pleased when she settled further into the couch and placed her bare feet on the coffee table, as he scooped his son into his arms.

Carl didn't stir the whole way to his bedroom, the long, sedentary day lulling him into a heavy slumber. Rick dropped him in his bed, pulling the covers up tight, and took a seat beside him. He looked around the dark room at the vintage baseball-themed decor. His wife had picked it out before he was born, wanting something timeless that he could grow with, and now six years later it was still there. He leaned against the headboard, brushing his hand over Carl's silky hair, and thought about the trip so far. He wasn't lying when he said it was important to him for Carl to feel at home here, but he had to admit there was a bit of self-punishment involved his return trips as well. This was the only place that really knew him, but that meant it knew all of his secrets too. Things that he didn't deserve to forget, so he made sure to remind himself of them often. This time, though, the guilt he came looking for didn't feel as ubiquitous. Instead, taking Michonne around, talking to her about all the things about this place that he'd always carried with him, but didn't pay much mind to, reminded him that there were more memories here than just the hard ones. His son was perhaps the biggest proof of that, he thought. Having company on this trip, here in this house, helped him to feel less like he was visiting a museum of how life used to be, and more like he was making new memories for Carl to experience first hand. He contemplated that, as he pressed his lips to his forehead and left him with a wish about sleeping tight and keeping bugs at bay, heading back to enjoy more of that company.

When he returned to the first floor, Michonne was in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of wine, and peeling open the wrapper on a candy bar.

"You were holding out on us," he said, eyeing the large chocolate bar that was far more decadent than the gummy bears and M&M's she had shared during the movie.

"I didn't think Carl should have too much sugar before bed," she said with a shrug. She broke off half of the bar and offered it to him, but he shook his head.

"Keep it. I will have a drink with you, though."

She turned to the wall of cabinets behind her, and stood on her toes to get him a glass.

"I love stormy nights," she said, her mouth full of caramel. A flash of lightning lit up the dark living room beside them as she filled another glass and slid it over to him. He took a sip, cautiously allowing himself to enjoy the ambiance that the weather and the wine were creating.

"Me too."

"It's so quiet here," Michonne said, peering out of the small window in his kitchen at the flickering sky. "It's sort of unnerving."

Rick laughed around his sip of wine. "You think peace and quiet is unnerving?"

"I like quiet. It's just that, what if something terrible were to happen, like the world was ending or something? It might take days to find out."

"I do have a television and a phone," he said with an amused grin. "Besides, I think after the last few days, it's pretty clear I can't hide here."

"True. Speaking of Negan-" she said, her brow furrowing in that way he had come to recognize as the precursor to a work-related question.

"You know, we'll have a great view of the storm from the back porch. You can see for miles over the fields. You wanna go?" He was hoping to entice her to take the evening off from business; maybe they could just chat like friends for awhile. He could be friends with a beautiful woman, he thought. Carol didn't know everything.

"Sure," she agreed easily, handing him the half empty bottle and following him through the back door.

The covered porch was furnished with a pair of Adirondack chairs and a wooden swing, but Michonne bypassed them both, choosing instead to rest her elbows on the railing, and let the mist from the splashing rain hit her face. He set the bottle on an end table at one end of the porch, and took the spot next to her, as a bolt of lightning streaked through the unencumbered sky in a wild zig-zag pattern.

Michonne gasped, in awe of the light show that seemed to be playing just for them. "You really can see for miles," she said, quietly, almost to herself.

"It's a great spot for storm watchin'. I don't usually get back here in the spring and summer though, when all the good storms happen. But we've seen a few."

"Carl doesn't seem to mind the traveling," she offered.

"He's used to it; thinks it's exciting. He's been all over the country with me. I couldn't stand to leave him for weeks at a time when he was little."

"You took him with you on the road?" she asked, her eyes wide over the rim of her glass as she sipped. "How did you make that work?"

"Carol mostly. She was looking to get away and I was looking to keep Carl close. The travel department helped me book an extra room at whatever hotel we were at. When he was old enough, she'd take him to the games, sightseeing. Now he's got school, so we can only do it in the summer."

"That's a lot of coordination."

"It was, but I knew he'd only be little for a short time. I didn't want to miss any of it- getting up with him in the night, first words, first steps." He dipped his head, with a smile remembering a particularly long night in Houston, when they had just lost a three-game series, and Carl came down with the flu the last night there. He never knew a baby could throw up so much, until he got the cleaning bill from the hotel.

"A lotta people told me being in a different place all the time wasn't good for him," he said. "Maybe it wasn't, but I think being away from his father for half his life woulda been worse. It kinda felt like it was just me and him left in the world after he lost his mother." He paused then, suddenly aware that he was flirting with a line in the sand he'd drawn the first day. He could see it on her face too, as she eyed him optimistically.

"This is an amazing story, Rick," she said. "Why haven't I heard it before? I bet the fans would eat this up."

"Yeah, well, I don't like the idea of using my dead wife to sell jerseys."

Michonne's shoulders fell at his response, her voice going soft. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I know you didn't," he said. "But you're not the first one to tell me that." He drew in a deep breath, steadying his voice before she got the impression the edge in his tone was directed at her. It wasn't. In fact it felt good talking to her about it- saying it out loud the way it was, not the way everyone always wanted to spin it. He'd do anything for Carl, but those were the hardest years of his life, and it certainly wasn't an act of pure selflessness on his part. He had a responsibility, a debt, and frankly he had something to prove.

Rick turned his back to the storm, leaning against the railing, and she did the same, settling close enough that he could feel her body heat over the slight chill of the damp air. He looked down at her face, expectantly tipped toward him, as if she'd been sent there to take his confession, and suddenly, after avoiding it all week, he wanted nothing more than to let it out.

He took a long sip of his wine, before speaking again. "The truth is," he started, nervously running his index finger over the thumb of his right hand, the way he did when he was facing a full count on the mound, and the next move he made could make or break the match up. "Lori and I were on the outs when it happened. When she got pregnant, things...changed. She hated me playin' baseball all of a sudden. It was a rough time when I got hurt and sent back down to the minors. With my dad gone, I guess she took up his mantel as the voice of reason."

"She wanted you to quit?"

"She didn't say it outright. She just kept pushing me to go back to school in the off-season, talking about a back up plan; something more stable. She didn't trust I could make a go of it anymore, not with a family to support. We fought about it a lot." A lot was an understatement, but for the sake of preserving the memory of a woman he once loved, he settled on it. The fact that he'd barely been speaking to his wife when she died should bear on his legacy, not hers.

"That's a hard choice," Michonne said, dipping her head with the weight of his words. "Letting go of one dream for another."

"It was, but I'd made it. I was gonna give it up when Carl was born. I knew she would ask me to, and I had made the decision to do it for her, for us. Seemed like it was the only way she and I would ever find any peace, and Carl deserved that, to be born into something better than what we had at the time. When she died, there was just no one around anymore to give it up for, so instead I gave it my all."

He paused then, taking a sip of his wine and letting his eyes close as he recalled the true cost of everything good he had in his life. He'd resigned himself to giving Lori what she wanted, to sacrificing his dreams for her security- for Carl's- but she'd never know that. Her death had plunged him into a sort of loophole where all of a sudden he could have both. He'd reneged on a promise he'd never even spoken out loud, and then spent the next six years feeling guilty, as one success after another came his way because of it. He pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes, stinging with the urge to spill, but he held it off. "Anyway," he said, with a long, outward breath. "I got pulled up a year later, brought Carl with me...like they say, the rest is history."

He felt Michonne reach for him then, silently hooking her arm through his and tipping her head to rest on his shoulder. The contact set off a wave of comfort through his body, loosening his shoulders and soothing his hands that had begun to shake at the mention of his wife's name. "You deserve your success, Rick," she whispered. "You're a good dad. Carl is happy, well-loved. You did it, and I'm sure Lori would have been proud of you for proving her wrong."

"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe she would have thought I was selfish for taking the chance I did." He ran a hand over his mouth and sighed. "Either way, we wouldn't have any of this if she had lived. Tellin' the story like some noble sacrifice on _my_ part? Letting people feel bad for _me_? That would be a lie. She's the only one who gave something up."

"That's not yours to carry, Rick," Michonne said, her voice taking on an urgency that drew his eyes to hers. "Things happened the way they do. Whether it's for a reason, or just pure chance, we'll never know. But I think everything you have, everything you've achieved, it happened in spite of what happened to Lori, not because of it."

Rick nodded; his voice feeling like it would break if he tried to use it. He tipped his head to the sky in a continued effort to control his emotions. His whole body felt lighter, like a dam had burst inside his chest, and all of the feelings he'd been carrying there escaped through his pores. He knew, rationally, that he'd never been given a choice in the matter. He would have given it all up in a second, if Lori could have lived to see their child. Maybe they would never have been happy together, no matter what he ended up doing, but he'd still be more than willing to live life as a small town cop, who coached little league in his spare time, if Carl could have grown up with his mother. It was never up to him though, and hearing Michonne tell him as much, somehow made his heart believe it.

He stayed silent for awhile, resting in the firm grip of her fingers around his bicep, until he felt his composure creeping back to him. "I've never told anyone that before," he finally said.

"I'm glad you told me."

He smiled, thinking about how she'd tapped into him from day one. Somehow, letting her into the closed off parts of himself felt easy. "You've been getting me to tell you stuff all week," he said. "You're good at your job."

Michonne shook her head, still resting on his shoulder. "I'm not working right now," she said.

He looked down at her, pressed against his side, and suddenly he was acutely aware of their intimate position. He pulled in a breath to steady his quickening pulse. "Musta been something else then," he said quietly.

She smiled back, then to his dismay, she pulled away. Maybe she noticed the building tension as well, and knew he wasn't strong enough to break it. Maybe the moment had just passed. Either way he felt his heart sink when she left his side, as if her touch was something he had the right to miss.

"You know," she said, turning back to the storm. "This is the best Friday night I've had in ages."

"A terrible movie and a lightning storm?" he asked, chuckling with her as he watched her reach for her glass of wine. He did the same, eager to drink in some liquid calm.

"Absolutely," she said, emphatically. "But, I meant the conversation."

"You're easy to please."

"Maybe I am. It's nice talking to someone like this. About life...things that matter."

He watched her eyes as she spoke, noting the pensive look she'd worn earlier was back. He wondered how someone as beautiful and intelligent as her would be left wanting for a connection, but he understood the feeling. He'd told her more in one night than he'd admitted to himself in six years.

"It is nice," he replied. He wanted to say so much more, but he'd already survived the actual exchange, dissecting what it meant to him might be asking too much of his heart and the tentative control he had over himself in her presence.

"Anyway," she said, her voice trailing as she pivoted back to the safe harbor of small talk. "You don't get a view like this in the city."

"No," he said, as a shock of light from the sky flashed across her pretty face. "You don't." He took the last sip of his wine. "How about a refill?" He held up his glass, and she drained her own in one sip, smiling.

Rick crossed the small porch to get the bottle he'd left by the door, taking the opportunity to talk himself down from the adrenaline that was pumping through his blood. Carol was right: he didn't stand a chance with this woman. Not with her standing so close, pulling things out of him that he never shared before. He should quit while he was ahead- put the wine down and go to bed, before he did, or said something he shouldn't. He pivoted on his heel, intending to tell Michonne he'd changed his mind about the drink, and make up an excuse for a quick exit, but when he turned, he stepped right into her, landing face to face.

"Oh! Sorry," she said, instinctively placing a palm against his chest to keep him from bowling into her. With the sound of the beating rain, and the silent step of her bare feet, he hadn't noticed she had followed him with her glass.

"I'm sorry, I…" His voice disappeared into the sound of the rain as she stared up at him, wide eyed. Her fingers began to curl against the thin fabric of his shirt, holding him in place, and the electricity still lingering in the air from the storm, seemed to find a new path, sparking between them. Everything in him told him to step away, to break up this moment before it became a different one, but neither one of them did.

He reached for her glass and set it down behind him, freeing her other hand. Without a word, she wound it around his neck, brushing the curls at the back of his head through her fingers.

Rick closed his eyes at the sensation, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. His heart was throbbing in his chest and the devil of desire and the angel of conscience battled over the strength of his touch, as his hands found their way to her hips. This wasn't who he was, he told himself, as he inched closer, but that didn't stop him from wanting to see what her petite body would feel like wrapped in his arms, or wondering if her heart-shaped lips were as soft as he imagined they were.

"What are we doing?" he whispered, forcing himself to speak while he still could.

"I don't know." He felt her grip on him tighten, and he tilted his head, ghosting his lips lightly over her cheek. He didn't dare kiss her like he wanted to. Even as she looked up at him with those big brown eyes, practically begging him to, he knew it was only a matter of moments before she put an end to this. He might be walking a fine line that separated him from Negan, but she was nothing like Jessie.

"I'm sorry," she said, suddenly pulling back to prove him right. She covered her cheek with her fingers where he'd just kissed her, as if her skin bore the mark of her near transgression. "Rick, I shouldn't have…" He could feel her trembling in his grip, and he let his hands slip away from her, landing idly at his side. "I can't."

He ran his hand over the back of his head, taking a step back to free himself from the desire to beg her to reconsider. This wasn't something he could have. He knew that, and it served him right for thinking he could. As far as rewards in life go, his was already bought and paid for. He had Carl, he had baseball; he didn't get to ask for more.

"It's...Mike and I…" she stuttered. Her voice was weak, unconvincing, and it only added to the injustice of what had just transpired between them.

"I know," he said, dropping his eyes to his boots as he shuffled his stance, further separating them. "I'm sorry too."

"Don't be," she pleaded. "It was my fault. I don't know what I was thinking."

He could see her running her hands over her bare arms in the top corner of his gaze, as they both stood frozen to the ground.

"I should go to bed," she finally said.

He nodded, feeling desperate for more air than he was currently able to take in in her presence. He lifted his head, letting his eyes land anywhere but hers, for fear he would see the same confusion he was battling with, and the knife in his heart would twist even further. "Alright," he said. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Rick." She stepped around him, hurrying through the door to the house, and just like that, disappeared from his sight.

Rick covered his mouth with his hand, stroking his flushed skin. He paced the small porch in the dark, berating himself for being so weak. He was known for his control on the field, but lately he was finding it slipping away from him at every turn in his personal life. First letting Negan get to him, now crossing a line with Michonne; he was spiraling and he didn't like it. He stopped to pour himself a glass of the forgotten wine, wishing he had something stronger, then dropped into one of the hard, wooden chairs. He needed to get ahold of himself, he decided. He'd just rehashed everything that had to happen to get him and Carl where they were, and it was a good reminder of his responsibility to what he'd earned. Michonne was there to help him with that, and it would serve him best to put her back at arm's length, and forget that she just happened to be everything he'd been looking for in a woman.

…

Michonne closed the door to her bedroom behind her and collapsed against it, dropping her face into her hands. What had she been thinking? She'd come really close to doing something she would never have forgiven herself for. Mike and she might not see eye to eye on some things, a lot of things, but he had been good to her. He didn't deserve what she had almost done to the relationship they'd been building for the last twelve months. Not to mention how Rick must have felt. He'd opened up to her, shown her the vulnerability she'd been asking for since they started this, and she'd turned around and led him on. She hadn't meant to. Something was pulling her to Rick. Something strong and undeniable, and it had taken everything she had just then to walk away from it. She felt desperate, like kissing him was something she needed like air, or water. She'd never felt that way about Mike.

She crossed the room, falling face first onto the mattress, and buried her face in the soft duvet. She needed to work this out, have someone talk some sense into her, but she was stuck in the middle of nowhere, one floor above the man who had her brain scrambled. She couldn't talk to Hershel- not about this- and she really knew she would regret it, but Andrea was the only one left. She reached for her phone, almost jumping out of her skin when it began ringing the second she plucked it from the nightstand.

Of course, she thought, nearly groaning out loud when she read the caller ID. After days of missing each other, Mike had finally decided to call at a convenient time. She pulled up to a seated position, cross-legged on the mattress, and sucked in a long breath before she answered it.

"Hey, beautiful," he said. He sounded more chipper than ever, and her stomach squirmed with guilt.

"Hey," she replied, nervously plucking the lint from the cuff of her sweatshirt. "We finally caught up."

"I'm sorry I didn't call you back last night. I was at the hockey game."

"I figured," she said. "How was it?"

"It was crazy, Miche. You shoulda been there. They pulled it out in overtime and the whole city was partying."

Rick had the game on in the background while the two of them made dinner the night before, so she had already seen the score. "Sounds great," she said.

"Bunch of us went back to the owner's house afterward. I didn't get home until this morning when I called you the first time. Took the day off and I've been sleeping it off, so that's why I'm calling back so late. Glad I caught you; I figured you'd be bored out of your mind and turning in early."

"It hasn't been that bad," she said, feeling the heat of her mistruth creeping up her neck. She suddenly didn't feel like confessing to her boyfriend what a great time she'd been having.

"I miss you," he said, his tone turning sultry, suggestive. "When are you coming home to me?"

"A few more days." She tried to force a smile onto her face, one that could hopefully be heard on the other end of the line. She just wanted to get him off the phone so she could process what had just happened between her and Rick, but he had finally found the desire to catch up with her.

"I'm counting them down," he said.

"Listen, I'm exhausted. I'm going to get to bed. Everyone gets up at daybreak around here."

"Country life," Mike chuckled. "Alright, baby. Sleep tight. I'm dreaming about you tonight."

"Goodnight, Mike."

She ended the call and tossed the phone aside, deciding the situation was far too complicated for Andrea right now. What she needed was a good night's sleep to clear her head. She kicked off her shorts, and lifted her t-shirt over her head, crawling under the covers in just her underwear. With a flip of a switch, the room was pitch dark and exhaustion settled onto her bones like a heavy blanket, along with the realization that in a few short hours, she was going to have to face Rick again.


	7. Chapter 7

Hey everyone, here is the next chapter, but I have to apologize to all of you thirsty people! Michonne's sleepwear was not intentional. There will be no follow up to that little detail. I didn't mean to get you all excited :). Get your minds out of the gutter! Can't a girl just sleep comfortably? lol :). I love you guys. Thanks for the reviews.

Anyway, here it is!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Michonne could hear the television already on when she finally got the courage to creep down the stairs the next morning. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, deciding that maybe their morning coffee and pajamas routine wasn't something she and Rick should do anymore. Rick must have thought the same, because when she followed the sound of the latest sports news, and wandered into the living room, she found him sitting in the armchair dressed all the way from his ball cap to his boots. He looked like he had been up for awhile, and he was currently engrossed in whatever he was watching on television.

She took a few more steps toward him, intending to bite the bullet and apologize for what had happened between them or at least broach the subject and feel him out, but the sound from the television, and the scowl on Rick's face, caught her attention.

On the screen, a pretty blonde was sitting behind a news desk with Rick's team's logo digitally displayed on the green screen behind her. She spoke to another man, dressed in a sharp looking suit, whose picture floated in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.

"John Negan took to social media to continue his tirade about his teammates yesterday," she was explaining. "Specifically his apparent rival, starting pitcher Rick Grimes. Ed, what can you tell us about that?"

"That's right, Erin." The smaller picture expanded, the man now the primary focus, as the camera zoomed out to show him standing in front of Rick's home stadium. "Negan has been extremely vocal since this whole thing started between him and Grimes, and yesterday he took to Twitter to lay out a few questions of his own, including where his teammate has been over the last week. Now, they're both serving suspensions for an on-field fight between the two, and Negan, it seems, is using the opportunity to air some grievances, much to the dismay of his new club. Grimes, on the other hand, has been M.I.A since the suspension was announced. According to Negan, that's cause for concern."

The screen cut away from the reporter then, an image of Negan's latest social media post replacing Ed's face. His voice remained to narrate. " _Baseball is a mental sport,_ " he said, reading Negan's words. " _It's no coincidence when a guy has a breakdown and then disappears. My bet is on a visit to a shrink_."

The imaged flipped to the next 120 characters of Negan's monologue. Ed kept reading. " _Rick Grimes is no Golden Boy. He's a psycho with a bad temper. Just watch the video."_

"So he's making the insinuation that this was more than just an argument between new teammates," the female reporter replied, when they both re-appeared on a split screen. "Is that right, Ed?"

"It is, Erin. Now, no one knows if what John Negan is speculating has any truth to it, but it does raise the question that a lot of people have been asking. Where is Rick Grimes? And why haven't we heard from him since this incident?"

The blonde moved on to the scores of the day then, and Rick reached for the remote sitting next to him on the couch, turning the television off. She could hear his phone buzzing on the table next to him, but he made no moves to answer it, instead staring at the blank screen.

"Rick," she said, taking a tentative step in his direction. She desperately wanted to discuss what had happened between them but it seemed, just like the day's news, the headline had already changed to something else.

"I changed our plane tickets," he said, without looking at her. "With all this going on, I can't keep hiding out here. We leave this afternoon."

"But we had two more days to work on the story," she said, her heart sinking at the idea of going home early and losing her all access pass to him; whether it was the professional setback or the personal one that caused the reaction, she would figure out later. "You can't give up on this."

"Hershel still wants the story done," he said, "but I have call in to a P.R. firm. I can't put all my eggs in this basket anymore."

"You're going to go to the press?" she asked. "To defend your mental health against a schoolyard bully?"

"You have a problem with that approach?" His tone was challenging, and she knew instantly that their dynamic had shifted. He no longer saw her as a partner in this.

"No, Rick," she said. "I don't have a problem." She knew this was a bad decision. Negan hadn't been able to shut up since the fight, and she thought the distinction between the two would eventually become clearer, if Rick could just continue taking the high road. But she'd apparently lost his ear on the matter.

"Alright then," he said, trotting up the stairs and leaving her alone. "This afternoon."

…

At least Carl was still talking to her, she thought, as they split the last of her dime store candy on the pull-out tray the plane provided. Rick had barely spoken two words to her on the long car ride to the airport, and now he was absorbed in a book he had purchased at one of the kiosks before they had boarded. She had a feeling it was a front, bought solely to keep from having to speak to her. Apparently the night's sleep that she had used to clear her head, and come to a rational conclusion about how they were going to proceed with their friendship, he had used to decide they just wouldn't. The thought made her more sad than she cared to admit. She thought back to when she realized how limited their time was in the first place, a little piece of her heart still holding on to the unlikely possibility that they could find a way to stay in each other's lives after her work was done. Now, that time had been cut even shorter, and Rick wasn't giving her any impression that going out of their way to stay in touch was something he wanted.

"Sucks we had to leave early," Carl said, picking a red gummy bear from the pile.

"Don't say 'sucks'," Rick chided, without looking up from his book.

Carl smiled at Michonne as if he'd pushed that envelope on purpose. "We didn't even get to go to the farm and see the horses."

Michonne chanced a playful glance at Rick, remembering his promise that horses were not on the agenda, but he didn't participate. "Did Hershel tell you he grew up on a cow farm?" she asked, searching for her own favorite flavor.

"You mean a dairy farm?"

"Yes. Wiseguy."

"Yeah he told me all about it. He even showed me pictures of the kind of cows his daddy had."

"Did he show you Daisy?"

"Yup. The one with the big bell around her neck."

"That's right. I've heard a lot of stories about Daisy."

"So, Hershel is like your family, kind of?"

"He is. Like the kind of family you choose."

Carl nodded, seeming to understand the distinction. "Like Carol."

"That's right," she smiled. Even though Carol was technically Rick's employee, she could see that the two of them loved her like family.

"We went to Hershel's for Christmas Eve last year," Carl said. "How come you weren't there?"

Michonne thought back to the previous holiday, and the 'cabin' Mike had rented for the two of them in the mountains. It was bigger than her condo, but he'd dubbed it a rustic getaway-even though he'd spent the entire weekend on his phone. It was the first year she hadn't been to Hershel's famous Christmas Eve party, and her mind began to juxtapose her own memories of the event with the image she had conjured of Rick and Carl, laughing and partaking in all of them revelry that occurred there. He'd probably ditched the ball cap for the evening, she thought, sneaking an unnoticed peek at his profile. Maybe even the boots. She wondered what he looked like in a pair of tailored pants and a tie, probably just as good as Mike. She pushed the 'could haves' out of her mind, and turned back to Carl.

"How come you weren't there the year before?" she asked, taking a cue from Rick and spinning the question back around. "I was."

"Really?" he asked, his little brain trying to comprehend that coincidence. "We're usually in King County for Christmas. But it snowed and we couldn't fly."

Michonne could see Rick's attention straying from the book he was reading, his ear on the same hypotheticals she was exploring in her head. She'd told him the night before that it was pointless to try to discern the rhyme or reason to the way things happen; that the world just spins and we try to hold on, but now she found herself asking the question of why they'd never met until now. Better to take her own advice and let it go, she thought. She had met Mike, and they had a life.

She'd woken up that morning and taken a hard look at the situation in the light of day, and she'd come to the conclusion that she couldn't just write that off. Sure, Rick had proven her first instincts about him wrong, and to say she was attracted to him would be an understatement, but she'd known him less than a week. That wasn't enough time to convince her to blow up her entire life. It had taken her much longer than that to decide to date Mike. She prided herself on gathering facts before committing to something. She was a journalist, that's what she did. She didn't just take things at face value, even if her own heart was her source. Still, she couldn't help but wonder.

…

"You're sure I can't give you a ride?" Carol asked Michonne again, when they'd landed and fought their way through the crowd to the terminal. She'd already made it clear someone was picking her up, and Rick assumed it was Mike, since she was going to this much trouble to assure them they didn't need to wait for her. He pulled their luggage off of the carousel one by one, as the two women spoke behind him, hoping to make an exit before that awkward meeting.

"No, really. I'm fine. Thank you for the offer, though." She squatted to say goodbye to Carl, and Rick looked away. Unfortunately, in his attempt to avoid the sight of the two of them together, his gaze landed right onto Carol's curious face. The wheels were already turning in her head and he could see all of her questions lining up in her brain. Not that it was hard to pick up the change in pressure between the two of them. Rick sighed, pulling his hat down further over his eyes.

When Carl had finished plotting out all of the ways the two of them were going to keep in touch, naive to the fact that none of them were likely to come to fruition, Michonne stood again, awkwardly turning toward him.

"Carl and I are going to use the bathroom before we head back," Carol said, wrapping an arm around the boy and reaching for his suitcase. "I'll meet you at the gate, Rick. Bye, Michonne."

"Bye," she replied, with a weak wave, before dropping her eyes to the floor.

"I guess just give me a call if there's more you need for the story," he said, glancing over his shoulder for any sign of her ride. "I've still got another week to go on my suspension, so I'll be around."

"Rick," she said, tipping her head to force him to make eye contact with her. "I'm really sorry for what happened. It was never my intention."

A wave of guilt washed over him when he saw the contrition pooling in her eyes. He let out a long breath and tried to push his poor behavior out with it. He hadn't meant to be rude, that was just the best way he came up with to avoid the sting of smiling and laughing with her. "Listen," he said. "I'm sorry too. Let's just go on with the story. Keep things professional. I think that's best."

"Ok," she replied, though she didn't seem relieved despite the peace offering.

"Ok." He reached for her then, feeling as though it was an appropriate, if torturous, conclusion to their time together. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze and another kiss on the cheek. This time, instead of heady and promising, he made sure it was chaste, and final.

"I'll call you then," she said. "If I have any questions."

He hoped she didn't. It was better to do this like a bandage, one quick goodbye. "Yeah. See you around Michonne."

Rick could feel Carol's eyes on him the whole drive back, but it wasn't until they had made it home, and Carl had taken off to the backyard to play, that she finally said what was on her mind.

He was laying on the couch staring at the ceiling, since he didn't dare turn on the television and hear more from Negan, and she approached him with her arms crossed firmly over her chest but a sympathetic smile. "Carl can't stop talking about her," she said. She smacked his boots off the cushion with her hand, and took a seat.

He pulled himself up and leaned against the arm of the couch. He could probably get out of this conversation if he tried, but he was too tired and maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be pushed, even if it was just to get out of his own way.

"Yeah," he agreed. "She has that effect."

Carol quirked an eyebrow at him, obviously surprised at his candid reply. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Not much to tell. She's on her way home to her boyfriend and I got bigger fish to fry now with Negan."

She hummed out a response, looking thoughtful. "You need to take care of business right now," she said, reaching out to pat him on the arm. "But don't discount what a little room to breath can do for a person's clarity. I'm sure there wasn't a lot of oxygen flowing to either of your brains, the way you were staring at each other."

Rick rolled his eyes out of habit, though he couldn't help but be soothed by the suggestion. "I don't know," he sighed. "Sometimes it feels like a choice was made for me a long time ago. This career, or the important things in life, and fate or whatever else is holding me to it. I don't want to sound ungrateful-"

"You don't."

He nodded. "It's just that, sometimes I don't know if it was the right choice."

Carol was quiet for awhile, then she finally said, "Rick, I know you think you've already had your chance of a lifetime, and maybe compared to most people you have, but sometimes the biggest things to happen to us are still just the footnotes in the real story of our lives."

He thought of Lori then, of the way Michonne had helped him let go of some of the guilt of the other big thing that happened in his life. His wife's death was certainly more than a footnote, but he'd realized through that conversation that there was a difference between chances and choices. Meeting her had been a chance for something real in his life, something that would last when all of this faded away. However, in the end, Michonne _had_ made a choice and it wasn't him.

…

"God I missed you," Mike said, his hands traveling down the back of her dress and coming to rest on her ass with a greedy squeeze. He'd been excited when he found out she was coming home early. More excited than he'd been to speak to her while she was gone, given the way their correspondence had been almost non-existent. "Did you miss me?"

His brown eyes were glinting in the low light of her condo as they stood in the doorway, getting reacquainted.

"Sure," she answered.

"Sure?"

"Sorry," she said. "I'm just tired. It was a lot of traveling today."

"Well, I'm glad you agreed to come out then." She stepped out into the hallway where he stood, locking the door behind her, and following him to the elevator.

"Of course. I know it's important to you." On the plane ride home, while Rick was ignoring her, she took a little time to think about her own part in the distance between her and Mike. Andrea was always telling her she didn't try hard enough, that all he did was spoil her and she was ungrateful for it. What happened between her and Rick was the final wake up call that not all of their problems could be blamed on Mike. Sure, maybe Rick just happened to like the same things as her, and spending time together and laughing together came easily to them, but she hadn't given Mike a fair chance to be that. He wasn't a mind reader. Maybe if she just told him how she felt, asked him for the things she needed, things could be different. Somehow though, even after that epiphany, she was still dolled up in a little black dress and a sky-high pair of heels ready to go have dinner with some NBA player she had never heard of, and his wife. She wondered what Rick was doing tonight. Probably unpacking, having a quiet dinner at home, playing with Carl.

"It is important," Mike was saying as he flagged down a taxi and held open the door for her. "This guy is on the cover of the magazine next week and the story is all about the home lives of some of these players. You know, the wives club; all the leagues have them. It will be good to have you there to chat up his wife, make her feel more comfortable." He scooted closer to her in the back of the cab, putting his hand on her knee. "Plus you look fine tonight, Michonne. I like walking in to a place with you on my arm."

Michonne offered him a smile, her mind drifting back to that line between confident and arrogant that Rick never crossed, then she chastised herself. She'd made a decision, and now was the time to put it to action. "You look good tonight, too," she smiled, discreetly adjusting her cleavage in her dress. "And I'm glad I can help with the dinner tonight. It will be fun."


	8. Chapter 8

Michonne stared out the window of her home office- a formal dining room that she had converted with the addition of french doors and a few built-in bookcases- and watched the city rush past her on the street below. She lived in the Arts District, close to the museum that she loved so much, so the pedestrians were usually casually dressed. Bohemian style dresses and graphic t-shirts dotted the sidewalk today, with the spring in full swing. She was often struck by the way the city seemed to offer a different slice of pie to anyone who was hungry; a few blocks away, the same fourth floor view would play spy to the tight pencil skirts and tailored suits of the high-rise office buildings; a subway ride from there would find the tweed jackets and overflowing tote bags of the campus life. And right of the middle of it all, was Rick's slice. Some days, if she listened closely enough over the sounds of the traffic, she could make out the faint sound of the P.A. system at the stadium. It sounded a little different to her now, knowing he was there.

It had been three weeks, two black-tie events with Mike, and six games with Rick back in uniform, since they'd returned home from King County- not that she was counting. She'd only spoken to him a handful of times since their goodbye at the airport. An email here or there with a follow-up question, or to confirm the name of some landmark in town. There was one phone call when she had caught him just as he was leaving the stadium, but they'd barely spoken for five minutes before he had to go. Now the story was almost done. She was putting the finishing touches on it this week, and then it would go to her editor. She told herself the lack of interaction with her subject was dragging out the length of time it was taking to complete, but maybe she was procrastinating. She couldn't help but think that when she closed out her final sentences on him, that would be it. Sure, it would be another couple weeks until Mike ran the story, and the editing process was always a back and forth, but still, it felt like she was writing the conclusion to their friendship, and it pained her.

Closing her laptop, and deciding to procrastinate a little longer, she went to the kitchen to grab a seltzer and a piece of fruit to enjoy out on her balcony. She opened the fridge and moved aside the protein shakes that Mike had started keeping there. Since she'd been back, he'd been unusually open to spending time at her place. He'd even spent the night there after a particularly late event the weekend prior, instead of insisting his driver shuttle them back to his house. She wasn't sure what caused the change in behavior, maybe absence and hearts growing fond, and all of that, but for all intents and purposes things were good between them. That's why she felt so guilty when her mind continued to stray to that night on Rick's porch, like it was doing right then.

She stepped out into the warm air and breathed in the faint scent of the harbor, kept close by the cloud cover. Since it was the weekend, and there was no commuter traffic, and she happened to read online that Rick would be starting in today's game, she listened. The good weather had everyone out and enjoying themselves, though, and all she heard was the sound of dogs barking and people chatting.

She'd been keeping an eye on the sports news, for research, and she knew that since Rick had been back, his game had been off. His numbers were dropping fast, and according to the pundits, he was struggling to maintain his spot in the rotation. The coverage ranged from calling it a slump, to giving some credence to Negan's accusations of a mental break. One day, the local station had even given a sports therapist a guest spot to speculate on all the things that could cause a pitcher's game to be affected, not the least of which was intensified media coverage, like the kind he was participating in with his theories. The whole thing worried her, and did nothing to curb her inclination to keep tabs on him, which in turn, had given way to a near daily habit of finding a way to see his face in some form or another. Just a quick glimpse would satisfy her need to know that he was ok without crossing any lines, she'd told herself, as she perused any and all media coverage on him since his return. Today, though, she felt compelled to do one better.

After a battle between conscience and excuses, she went back into her living room and switched on the television. She scrolled through her cable to the sports station she hadn't even realized was part of her subscription until a few weeks ago, and there he was, live and in person.

He'd shaved, she noted, with cautious curiosity. The team had lost a few games while he was away, so their facial hair statement must have begun anew. The camera was zoomed in on his handsome face as he communicated with the catcher, barely moving except for a faint shake of his head, and an occasional swipe of his lower lip with his tongue. She glanced over her shoulder, as if she might be caught by some invisible specter who had somehow felt her belly flip at the sight. The screen panned out again, and Rick pivoted quickly, throwing the ball to first base instead of to the catcher, as a man from the other team leapt onto the bag. She listened to the announcers explain to her what was going on, with piqued interest. She was so occupied trying to figure out the plays of the game, that she hadn't heard the knock on her door. Suddenly, Andrea appeared in her line of vision, startling her, and she dived for the remote that she had left on the coffee table.

"Are you watching the game?" her friend asked. Her brow furrowed in confusion, before a smirk began to form on her lips. "Really, Michonne?"

Michonne quickly switched off the television and began to stutter out an excuse, but Andrea was already wearing her signature 'save it' look as she took the seat next to her on the couch.

"What's going on here?" she asked.

"Nothing is going on here," Michonne defended. "I just wanted to check on him. See how he was doing since the suspension is over."

"Michonne, I thought you said what happened between you two was a mistake. A mistake I would give my right arm to have, but a mistake nonetheless."

"It was," she said. "We're friends, and friends check up on each other."

"Then why don't you call him to see how he's doing, instead of watching him on TV like a schoolgirl with a crush?"

Michonne narrowed her eyes at the comparison, though she knew that was exactly how it looked. "Because his _publicist_ is fielding all calls from the media right now." She didn't mean to sneer out the word, but from what little contact she'd had with the man, she didn't like him. He'd managed to keep Rick's name in the news, but it didn't seem to be any good publicity as far as she was concerned.

"So, call his cell. I know you have it."

"He said he wants to keep things professional," she said, wincing a little at the reminder. "I don't know if I should."

Andrea hummed out a dubious reply. "So which is it? Are you friends, or are you keeping it professional?"

Michonne sighed loudly, dropping backward into the corner of the couch. "Neither, I guess." Friends didn't speak to each other through the P.R. department, and she knew it was less than professional for her to be checking up on him like this. "It doesn't matter anyway. I'm almost done with the story and then, based on the way things are going, we won't be either one."

Andrea's teasing tone broke, and her smile softened with sympathy. "Look, I'm your best friend, right?" she asked.

"For lack of available options."

"Ok, so I'm going to give it to you straight: I was wrong."

Michonne opened her mouth for the retort she had already planned, before she realized what Andrea had actually said. "What?"

"I said, I was wrong. I've been telling you for months to try harder with Mike- to enjoy his lifestyle. But I get it now. You like comfortable; comfortable clothes, comfortable food, comfortable company. There's nothing wrong with that, but this is the wrong kind of comfortable. This is you choosing to stay with something you know, not because you like it, but because it's easy. That's not comfortable; that's lazy."

"Lazy?" she repeated, her spine prickling with building offense.

"Like the way you're still freelancing, instead of finding something you can dedicate yourself to. You claim you don't know what you want in life, so you keep doing what you know. It's the same with Mike. You don't love him, you just know him well enough that there's no risk."

"That's not true," she interrupted, but Andrea held a hand up to stop her.

"I know he looks good on paper, and the two of you have been co-existing for a year now, but if another guy can reduce you to this type of googly-eyed infatuation, then you don't love Mike." Andrea folded her arms across her chest as final punctuation to her point and waited until the surprise on Michonne's face turned into resignation.

"But what if it's just that?" she asked, quietly, her palms starting to sweat at being called out. She stood, taking up a path in front of the television. "What if this is some fleeting infatuation that will be over just as quickly as it started. I barely know Rick."

"Don't you?"

That was a lie. She knew things about him that no one else did, apparently, but that didn't mean that they were compatible. What if that intense electricity between them turned ugly when they disagreed? Or her ability to make him laugh when he was brooding was short-lived? What if that constant feeling of being under a spell when she was around him faded, and she all of a sudden saw him differently one day? With Mike, at least things were time-tested. Everything that was going to play out had-in a completely underwhelming way.

"Mike has been better lately," she offered, determined to cover every corner of this dilemma she'd found herself in. "He's doing some of the things I want to do, and he even promised to go out with us Thursday night to the Ale House, instead of trying to convince me to go to a fancy dinner downtown. I've been trying to get him to do that for months."

"Sounds like a real work in progress."

"Don't be snide."

"I'm not trying to be, Michonne. But tell me how hard you and Rick had to try to have a good time together in that tiny, little, boring-as-shit town. When you told me about your week, your face was practically beaming. It was obnoxious to be honest, and I still want to see more of it. You shouldn't have to work this hard to be happy."

Michonne rubbed at her temples, feeling her internal battle come to a head. The truth was she hadn't been able to stop thinking about Rick since the moment they'd almost kissed on his porch. When she was dancing with Mike at the Sports Writers Awards dinner they'd attended a week ago, she was thinking of Rick's hands on her hips, teaching her how to swing a bat. When she was dressed in a cocktail dress and eating a fifty-dollar-a-plate seafood meal by candlelight, she was thinking of the muddy rock where she'd laughed until her belly hurt over a slimy fish. When she went to bed at night, alone in her condo, or next to Mike in his king-sized, Japanese-style platform bed, she thought about what it would have been like to have that kiss, and follow it with so much more in Rick's bedroom in King County.

"It's not that easy," she whispered, sensing her ability to defend herself under Andrea's scrutiny was coming to an end. "We had a moment, almost a month ago. How do I know it's still even a possibility?"

"You don't know until you try. And even if this thing with Rick doesn't go anywhere, you finally got a taste of what you want in a guy. Can you honestly say Mike is it?"

Michonne tipped her head back and summoned a deep breath. What she wanted was good conversation that didn't feel superficial. She wanted quiet, playful nights like the one when she and Rick had cooked dinner together in his kitchen. She wanted to feel that breathless feeling that had overtaken her when she was surrounded by lightning, and rain, and the most intense blue eyes she'd ever seen. "No," she admitted. "I don't think he is."

…

The remaining days of the week flew by, leaving Michonne little time to contemplate her conversation with Andrea. Mike had been out of town for a night, then she'd been tied up with her editor on another piece that had to be finished before the end of the month. Now she found herself sitting at the bar with a few of her best friends, waiting for Mike to arrive for what felt like a Last Supper of sorts. Andrea was right; she couldn't stay with Mike if she was going to spend her days pining over another man. But she was here now, and he was making more of an effort than he had in a year. She told herself she would get through this night, give this one final shot, and if she still found herself wishing she was standing beside Rick, she would do what was right and end it. She could figure out what came next, later.

She passed the time stealing glances at the TV above the bar. Rick was starting again tonight, and she knew everyone's attention and conversation would be surrounding the game, adding an extra strain to the already tense evening she had ahead.

The announcers on the screen were chatting excitedly as the evening's match began. It was a clear night and the stadium lights exploded against the black sky, blotting out the stars. Below them, the grass and dirt was a colorful, vivid contrast to the bright white of the painted lines and the bases. She'd only been paying attention to the sport for a few weeks now, but every time she caught a glimpse of a night game, the atmosphere somehow conjured an excited buzz that she couldn't quite be sure of the origin. Maybe Rick's love of the game had rubbed off on her, she thought with a chuckle. Either that, or seeing him in that jersey called to mind their private batting lesson, and she liked the reminder.

She was watching the screen discreetly out of the corner of her eye, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, when Mike walked through the door of the cozy, neighborhood pub, looking as if he'd just stepped out of a board meeting on Wall Street. She could feel Andrea's eyes on her as she hopped off of the bar stool and went to greet him.

"Hey baby," Mike said, giving her all of his attention.

"Hey." She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, because not doing so would have brought about more questions than she was willing to answer so early in the evening. "Thanks for coming."

"So this is where you hang out when you're not with me?" Mike glanced around the room, seemingly sizing up the place and the other patrons who were all dressed like she was: in jeans and t-shirts.

"This is it."

"Do we get a table?" he asked, looking like he felt as out of place as a penguin in the desert.

"We were just hanging out at the bar," she said, motioning for him to follow her. "Everyone wanted to watch the game."

"Your boy's pitching," Mike said, nodding at the TV as he pulled out a stool for her and smiled at a few of her friends over the noise of the bar. His phrasing caught her off-guard, though she knew it was just an expression. And the fact that he thought he had to tell her that Rick would be playing tonight made her feel even more suspect for already knowing.

"Yeah," she said, clearing her throat as she pulled out a stool and hopped up. "I heard." Mike shrugged off his jacket, hanging it over the back of his stool.

"He's been pitching like shit since your trip," he said. "You'd better not tell anyone you were with him right before this slump. These fans are superstitious as hell, they might think you're the one who messed up his head." Mike laughed then, but she was sure he caught the way her eyes grew at the comment. God, she looked guiltier than she actually was.

She forced herself to join in his laughter to take some of the heat off of her face. "Well, the story came out great," she said. "My editor said it will be done in a week or so."

"He needs it. I haven't seen a crash and burn like this in awhile."

Michonne flagged down the bartender, silently signaling for another round. "I wouldn't call it a crash and burn," she said, cautious of her tone. She hadn't counted on having a conversation about Rick when she planned out how this night would go, but she wasn't willing to let that go.

"Rumor has it he's been a hot head all along. The whole thing with Negan just brought it to the forefront, I guess."

Michonne laughed, knowing that was the furthest thing from the truth. "Just because that's the rumor, doesn't make it true," she said. "You of all people should know that; you were a journalist once."

"And now I'm the head of a multi-million dollar publication," he shot back, "and I hang out with these guys all the time. John Negan might be an asshole, but he's not wrong about how it went down." The bartender set two beers down in front of them, and Mike handed him a credit card.

"Let's just drop it," she said, spinning on her stool to face the television.

Mike squinted at her, studying her face. "What's going on with you, Michonne?" he asked. "You've been acting some sort of way for weeks. Like your hoping to have a fight."

"Nothing is going on," she said, remembering her promise to herself. "Let's just order some food, ok?"

"Alright," he said, holding his hands up in surrender. "What's good here?"

…

The score was five to nothing in the fourth inning when Morgan and Daryl came trotting out to the mound. The night was uncommonly warm for early May in New England, and Rick could feel the sweat dripping down his forehead, and stinging his eyes, as he squinted under the bright stadium lights. Daryl arrived first, handing him the baseball and setting his hands on his hips.

"You good?" he asked, sizing Rick up with his mask tipped onto his forehead. "How's the arm?"

"Arm's fine," Rick answered.

Morgan came to a stop then, completing the huddle, and he stared at Rick for a few beats, smacking a wad of gum in the silence. "I've got a reliever warming up," he said, when it was clear Rick wasn't going to be the first to speak. "I need you to get out of this inning. Can you do that for me?"

"I'm trying."

"I know you are, Rick." He smacked him on the back and headed back to the dugout. "Try harder."

"Two more batters, man," Daryl said. "If you ain't got any strikes in you, just throw hard and make sure they can't crush it. The guys in the field will get you out of this."

Rick nodded, feeling the steady drum of his pulse beating in his ears. He could hear the chatter of the crowd growing during the break in action. Thousands of eyes staring at him, wondering what the hell he was still doing out on the mound with a score like that on the board. Morgan was a firm believer in working through your shit, and he was graciously and optimistically allowing him enough time to claw his way back from the place he had sunk to. But whereas the mound used to be his place of solace, the one place where things made sense and he was always in control, Negan had somehow turned it into a stage for him to stand trial for his mistakes. He hated the guy for pulling that weak moment out of him in the first place. And he despised him even more for inviting the world to shine a critical light on his biggest accomplishment, exposing it for the lonely island that it was. Or maybe it was Michonne who did that, he thought. She was the one who had opened his eyes to exactly what he was missing in his life, and now that he knew, it was all he could think about; everything else felt like a distraction. He didn't blame her, though. Mostly he just missed her, and wondered what it would be like to shake off a bad game, knowing he had something else at home. Negan was right about one thing, this was a game played with the head first and foremost, and his was miles away.

…

Mike was holding his own in the unfamiliar territory, she had to give him that. And he hadn't asked to cut the evening short yet, which she was fully expecting him to do. In fact, he'd been chatting pleasantly with a few new additions to the evening- old friends of hers from college who never missed a Thursday night at The Ale House. It struck her how when he gave people a real dose of himself, he had a lot to offer. Her friends were journalists too; Aaron was a beat reporter for the local daily news, and Eric had a syndicated column that covered trending topics like food and interior design. For a moment the four of them, plus Andrea, were having a perfectly normal evening, comfortably seated in a dingy corner booth at her favorite place. Unfortunately, this version of Mike never stuck around for long.

The conversation drifted to the upcoming holiday weekend, and a trip Aaron and Eric had planned to one of the islands off of Cape Cod, and she braced herself for the moment she could feel coming- when Mike was pulled into a topic he felt himself an expert on.

"Michonne and I vacationed there last summer, actually," Mike said. The way he said 'vacationed' made her squirm in her seat. They'd only rented a beach house for the weekend, but everything Mike did had a pretentious title to it that he felt was earned due to his mere participation in the activity. He didn't workout, he trained; he didn't go out for drinks after work, he networked. She felt her cheeks flush at the obvious way he made sure everyone in the room knew how successful he was. This was certainly not the type of crowd to be impressed by it, and she wondered how all of a sudden his flaws seemed so magnified. Like she had taken off a pair of glasses that were the wrong prescription, and the lines all became sharper and more defined. Maybe she had spent so much time thinking about how she didn't fit into his world, that she hadn't realize how much he didn't fit into hers either.

"It was a great time," he continued, while the others sipped at their beers. "A few of the ball players have summer homes out there, so I know the spots. Give me a call if you want some recommendations. I'll see if I can hook you up. Michonne really liked the chartered sailboat cruise we took, didn't you babe?"

"Yes," she sighed, "It was really nice, but I'm sure Eric and Aaron were thinking more like grilling on the beach and a little sightseeing, right guys?"

Aaron looked uncomfortable at being drawn into her rebuttal, glancing at Eric before replying. "It all sounds great," he said, diplomatically.

She could feel Mike starting at the side of her face as she looked away. He was right, she was picking a fight. She wanted desperately for this to be easy, for him to do something horrible, something unforgivable, to make this whole thing as clear as the expensive vodka in the rocks glass he was sipping, but he wasn't doing a damn thing wrong. He was being sociable, pleasant, but now that her heart had already bowed out of the union, her head was trying to flee with as little carnage as possible.

"I'm going to get another drink," she said, needing the air. She stood and glanced around the table. "Can I get anyone else anything?" Andrea and Eric held up empty glasses and she nodded.

"I'll come with you," Mike said.

"No, I'll only be a minute. I'll bring a round." With that, she hurried across the room, pushing her way up to the busy bar. She took another glance at the television hanging above her head. The game had ended with another loss, and she found her thoughts drifting to the close-up of Rick's face a few innings ago when he had been pulled from the mound. He looked frustrated, worn down, and she realized she felt the same way in the midst of her own battle that she was currently fighting. Like Andrea had said, having a good time with Mike was something that required way too much effort.

After placing her order, she leaned against the bar and waited patiently, her thoughts running wild. She needed to get herself together. It wasn't Mike's job to give her a reason to break up with him. He wasn't the one who had changed; she was. She watched them for a little while longer, wondering how she'd even found herself in this position-months past the expiration date on any real feelings for him, but trudging along nonetheless. Andrea said it was laziness, maybe it was, but she also hated the thought of hurting him. Anytime she had allowed herself to consider ending things with Mike, she felt obliged to find some noble reason, something deeper than simply not having the same interests. What had almost happened with Rick made her understand though, that it wasn't just the fact that Mike liked sushi and she liked wings, or he liked nights out on the town and she liked cozy conversations in front of the fireplace, it was that there was nothing behind all of the superficial stuff to keep their thoughts on each other when they were spending time apart. Her thoughts hadn't left Rick for more than a day, even when she had tried desperately to push him out of her mind.

And it wasn't just _her_ thoughts, she realized. As she watched her friends from across the room, she couldn't help but notice the gleam in Aaron's eye while he watched Eric tell some exuberant story with his hands. Mike had barely looked at her all night, besides the occasional indiscreet peek at her ass when she made her way to the bathroom, or to get another drink. She could only recall ever being looked at like that by one person, and it wasn't her boyfriend.

 **...**

Rick tossed his cleats into his locker, slamming it shut with a force that rippled through the bank of metal doors. Shane glanced over at him as he went about pulling on his regular clothes. Most of the guys had left the stadium after the particularly rough loss, but Rick had been taking his time in the locker room, hoping to avoid walking out at the same time as Negan and getting stuck in front of a crowd of cameras with his nemesis. He'd learned his lesson about accidental photo-ops, and how they could be misconstrued, after a local tabloid had printed a snapshot of him and Negan sitting in the same vicinity as each other in the dugout. Negan was smiling like the like it was picture day at school, and Rick was a few feet away with an inadvertent scowl on his face. He was probably just listening to whatever Morgan had to say, but the publication had used it to once again propel a good buy-bad guy narrative that was becoming very lucrative for them.

He knew Shane was waiting around for a reason too, he just wasn't exactly sure what he wanted from him. To ride him over his poor performance? To offer some superstitious advice about slumps and losing streaks? He wouldn't still be there if he wasn't about to force a conversation of some sort.

"Never seen it get to you before," he finally said, when Rick had dropped onto the wooden bench to lace up his shoes.

"What's that?" He wasn't sure which of the things that were currently getting to him his friend was referring to.

"The reporters and all that. The other guys either eat it up, or piss and moan about it, but you usually just take it in stride."

"Yeah, well, they aren't usually dissecting my brain on national television. They wanna talk about my stats, or my arm, that's par for the course. Now every time they corner me, they ask about that asshole, and if he's the reason I can't seem to throw a strike anymore."

"Is he?"

Rick squinted at him, surprised by the question. "I had a bad day, and it won't seem to pass," he said. "It ain't about him."

"Maybe you need to get laid," Shane laughed. He never could sustain a serious conversation for long, but Rick had come to accept the locker room talk as part of the deal when it came to his friend's unique way of offering support. For the most part, he ignored it.

"Yeah, maybe."

"Seriously, brother. You gotta find a way to clear your head. Something's got you wound tight. I can see it." He tapped his finger to his temple to illustrate his point, then shrugged. "I'm just sayin' a little pussy never hurt."

Rick sighed, running a hand through his hair and thinking of Michonne, but not in the way Shane was suggesting. "You ever think about all this, Shane? How unreal it all is?"

Shane leaned up against the lockers, his demeanor changing when he saw that Rick was actually going to engage him on the subject. "What's that?"

"This fishbowl we live in, they love us when we're playing good, they hate us when we ain't. That's all fine and good. I can handle that. It's just that, when they're done with us, what do we have left?"

"You got your kid."

"I do," he said. Carl was the one thing he never questioned, but he knew the repercussions of hanging all of your happiness on your offspring. He didn't want to end up applying the kind of pressure on Carl that his old man did on him, because he had never found his own way. "Carl's getting older now. Old enough to start hearing what is said about me, and what if I'm not around enough to prove them wrong. You see those old guys that hang around here, reliving their glory days? They do it cause they never had anything else. They lived their whole life to do one thing, and then it ended, and it's just them and the memories."

Shane stared at Rick with his brows knit. "What are you saying, man?"

"I'm just saying, maybe the best we can hope for is to come out of it with some good numbers for the record books, and a little time left to do something else with our lives."

"Nah, man," Shane said. "You love this game. You're talking crazy."

"I do love it. I just hope it isn't the only thing I ever love."

Shane nodded, then threw his own bag over his shoulder and motioned for Rick to follow as they exited into the long hallway leading them out of the stadium. He opened the door and the warm night air surrounded them. "I'm this way," Shane said, pointing behind him to the place where the chauffeured cars lined up for the guys who lived in town. "I'll see you later. Listen, do me a favor, work on getting yourself outta this slump, getting your name back. You've earned that. Then you can think about what comes next."

"Alright," Rick said, shaking Shane's hand, and reaching around to slap his friend on the shoulder. "I'll try."

He left Shane at the split, turning in the opposite direction and making his way to the parking lot where he'd left his truck. He could see a mass of reporters and fans waiting at the end of the long tunnel and he braced himself. Ford was already caught in it, signing autographs and smiling for the cameras, and he hoped he could slip by unnoticed. As soon as he approached though, they spotted him and began yelling his name.

"Grimes!"

"Rick, what can you say about today's performance on the mound?"

"How is it sharing a dugout with John Negan at the moment?"

They all spoke over each other, clawing at the fence like animals, and pushing past each other. Rick resigned himself to the interaction, but he took a hard right into the swarm of fans instead; away from the microphones.

A couple of young boys rushed him immediately, holding up baseballs and pens, and he felt his shoulders relax a little. This he could handle.

"Hey boys," he said, shifting his bag on his shoulder and reaching for the items they wanted signed. "Did you have a good time at the game?" They were staring at him with their eyes wide and smiles on their faces as their father stood a foot away, waiting patiently.

"Yes sir," the older one said. "We did."

A few more families approached, falling into an orderly circle around him, and greeting him politely as the cameras flashed behind him from a respectful distance. He shook hands and signed his name, enjoying himself for the first time that night, until he saw a middle-aged, pot-bellied man pushing past a father with a young boy on his shoulders. Rick ignored the newcomer, bending down to sign a glove someone was handing him, but he was making his way through to the front of the crowd.

"Got a few items here," the man said, waving a handful of programs in front of Rick's face as he tried to write his name.

"Get in line," Rick said without looking up. He had backed up to the brick wall of the stadium tunnel and had few places to turn to avoid the man.

The man continued to maneuver in front of the people who had been waiting patiently and Rick was finally forced to acknowledge him. "Just need a couple signatures," the guy said.

Rick looked him up and down, recognizing his presence immediately- the ill-fitting suit, the smarmy smile- he was one of the guys who made his money selling momentos online for way more than they were worth. "Step back," he said, calmly. "Let the kids through."

The guy didn't budge. Instead, as soon as Rick handed a mother back the poster she had asked him to sign for her son, he used his pudgy hip to check the rest of the line, cornering Rick against the wall. "Come on, Cowboy. Just give me a couple and I'm out of the way."

Rick could feel the man's breath on the side of his face, and he could hear the dejected sighs of the kids who were supposed to be next. He tried to move around the man, but he matched his step. "I said step back," Rick snapped, his hand grabbing the guys collar before he even knew what he had done. He gave him one shove and released him, turning his back as the guy spit a few profanities in his direction and walked off. "Asshole," he muttered under his breath, ignoring the cameras flashing in his face as he got back to his fans, but something told him he'd just done exactly the opposite of what he'd promised Shane.

 **...**

Michonne stood to say goodbye to Aaron and Eric as the evening wound down, and the impending work day began to rear its ugly head. She had spent the rest of the evening just trying to keep things pleasant, while she contemplated what had to be done.

Mike was offering a well-practiced smile in an effort to give the impression he cared one way or another if he saw her friends again, but his eyes were looking past them, still on the post-game coverage.

"So we'll see you next week?" Aaron said, reaching in for a hug.

"I'll be here."

Mike chuckled suddenly, stealing her attention away from the round of good-nights. "What did I tell you?" he said, gesturing to the television above the bar and nudging her with his hip. Michonne turned her attention to the screen, immediately recognizing Rick's face on the shaky cell phone footage. "Rumors aren't always bullshit, Miche." Mike shook his head with a satisfied smile. "Grimes just shoved a guy looking for an autograph."

The clip played again and Michonne watched as Rick grabbed the shirt collar of a middle-aged man with a mustache, and forcibly moved him out of the way, as two kids looked on.

"What is he doing?" She muttered under her breath. Here she was trying to get him out of this mess, and he was giving the world another go at him. Even as she was cursing him under her breath though, she was worried. Mike's words were ringing in her ear, and she knew that he knew how fickle people could be with their admiration. Rick didn't deserve to crash and burn; he was too good for that- too real. "I'm going to go to the ladies room," she said, slipping out from under Mike's hand. "I'll be back in a minute."

Michonne walked purposefully down the slim corridor to the bathrooms, pulling her cell phone out of her back pocket as she got to the door. She glanced at the time; It was late, but that video couldn't have been taken too long ago. She took a deep breath, running her hand over her face, then dialed Rick's number.

It only took him a moment to answer, and she briefly wondered if he had deleted her number and she'd caught him by surprise, but the melancholy sound of his voice told her otherwise.

"Rick, I just saw you on the television."

He was quiet for a moment, before breathing out into the receiver. "Yeah, looks like I'll be back on the news tomorrow."

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Guess I'm trying out my new persona," he sighed. "Didn't you hear I'm mentally unhinged?"

"It's not funny, Rick. All this work we put into this story, it's going to be for nothing."

"I know it's not funny. Look, I screwed up, but the picture is misleading. It's not what you think."

"You know everyone is looking for you to screw up right now. They're going to use anything they can."

"I know that."

The line went quiet for a moment and a vision of him popped into her head, standing on the porch beside her, vulnerable and open, trusting her with the very things that kept him awake at night. She wished she could be there now, when she knew he was feeling like that twenty-year old kid again, who everyone expected to fail. "I saw the game," she said. If she couldn't be there, she could at least admit she wanted to be.

"Since when do you watch baseball?"

"Since I left your house," she confessed with a quiet chuckle. "I told myself it was for the story, but the truth is, I miss you. Maybe I don't know you well enough to miss you, but I do."

When he didn't reply, a cold fear crept into her chest. Maybe she'd overstepped. Maybe he'd forgotten about the whole thing by now. But it was too late to go back. Since her conversation with Andrea, she had known in her heart that no matter what happened with Rick, she didn't love Mike. But oh, how she wanted something to happen. "Rick, I can't stop thinking about that night."

"Me too," he finally said, his voice sounding pained. "But thinking about that night is what's got my head all twisted. I wish you well with Mike, Michonne. I really do. But I can't do this. I gotta go."

"Rick, wait-" She heard the line go dead and she sank against the wall, pressing her fingers into her eyes. He'd cut her off before she could tell him that he had her head all twisted too, but in a good way. She should call him back, or text him; tell him he was being an ass and to listen to her for a minute, but before she could...

"What was that about, Michonne?" Her eyes snapped open and she saw Mike standing a few feet away, watching her with narrowed eyes. She didn't know how much he had heard, but it didn't matter. It was time.

"Mike...we have to talk."

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 **A/N Hi everyone, thanks so much for your reviews and favs. Hope you liked this update, and don't worry, Rick and Michonne will be back to sharing scenes next chapter.** :)


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Hi everyone, I hurried to get this chapter posted today specifically for Trinrichonnetrash because of her lovely DM. Thanks to all of you who have contacted me, here or on Tumblr, with kind words for this story. I am having a blast writing this and your comments are the best part. With the holiday weekend, the next update might be a little slower to come (which you might kill me for once you see where this one ends lol) but I am working on it and will try to update again soon. Thanks for reviewing!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I knew it, Michonne. I knew something was up from the minute you got back. How could you do this to me?"

"Mike, please," she said, holding her hands up to try to convince him to lower his voice. They were standing outside the bar on the sidewalk, busy with college kids who were getting a head start on the weekend. Andrea was hovering a safe distance away, watching it all unfold. "I know you think this is about Rick, but it's not."

"Bullshit. You sneak off to call him behind my back, and I'm supposed to believe that? I'm the only reason you even had the opportunity to take this job, and you used it to cheat on me."

"I didn't cheat on you," she said, her voice losing its conviction as she remembered how close she had come. "I wouldn't let anything like that happen. Neither would Rick. But I did start to realize some things while I was gone."

"Like what? That you had a shot to climb the ladder a little higher? Some bigger coattails to ride on?"

Michonne took a step back, narrowing her eyes. "Mike, you're hurt, so I'm going to let that slide," she said, but her tone had lost all of its trepidation. "You know I don't care about climbing any ladder. You're the one always begging me to go with you to mingle, and wine and dine."

"That's right, Michonne. When it comes to my job, I have to beg. He goes around trashing his own career and you rush off to...to...what? Save him?"

"I'm sorry if it felt like that to you," she said. "I didn't mean for it to. But you're right; it wasn't fair to you. Don't you see that is what I'm trying to fix?"

"By breaking up with me for the guy who you want me to run an exclusive story on in my magazine? Do you even know how that is going to make me look?" He shook his head and glared at her. "It's not like people don't know who we are."

"I'm not breaking up with you for him," she said, cautiously. There was another edge to this sword that she hadn't fully allowed herself to contemplate yet, but she felt it getting sharper by the second. "I'm just...breaking up with you for me."

"You know what? Go ahead, Michonne. Hitch your wagon to that falling star. But you can forget about printing your little story in my magazine. If you think I'm doing either of you any favors, you're insane."

"Mike, please. Don't be like this. None of this is his fault."

"Listen to yourself, Michonne. A month ago you would have been shaking your damn head at a guy like that. What was it you said? Entitled jerks, right? Maybe I got a new story idea." He waved his hand across the air, as if highlighting a headline. "Entitled jerk punches his teammate in the jaw for stealing his girl, then turns around and steals someone else's."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I? I guess we'll see. Have a nice life, Michonne. I'm sure it's about to get real exciting, just like you hate."

Mike stormed off down the sidewalk, his phone to his ear, summoning a ride, and Andrea came rushing to her side.

"Well, that went terribly," Michonne said, her hands shaking as she fumbled for her keys. Despite herself, she felt the tears beginning to spill from her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Michonne," Andrea said, wrapping an arm around her. "I know you didn't want it to go down like that, but I think he just proved exactly what kind of guy he is."

She nodded, wiping at her eyes, before letting the air out of her lungs. "Maybe so, but how am I going to break this to Rick...and Hershel?"

…

It was early morning when Rick finally climbed under the covers, letting his head sink into the pillow, and his bleary eyes close. He'd been watching the DVR recording of the game since he arrived home, trying to study his own mechanics in an effort to find something concrete he could put his focus on. But focusing seemed to be the only problem he could identify. He could see it in his own eyes- his thoughts straying, the moment the crowd started to get to him- only now he could also see the look on Morgan's face before he pulled him from the game, and his teammates in the field as they watched him unravel.

Once he'd given up on watching himself pitch, and tried for sleep, the rest of the night began to haunt him-the incident with the autograph shark, the phone call from Michonne. He flipped over on his stomach, replaying the conversation in his head. He'd been sitting in his truck in the driveway, simmering in his own misery, when the phone began to ring through the Bluetooth. Her number flashed across the screen and his palms began to dampen with a nervous sweat. The last thing he needed was to dive backwards into the complicated feelings he had for her after successfully pushing them down since he got back from King County. He was tired of the 'tell him what he could have won' moments. But even from the depths of his self-pity, he'd been unable to resist hearing her voice. He was already laying on the rocky bottom, why not take just one more hit and bury himself there? he thought.

Of course Michonne had said exactly what he needed her to, even if he didn't want to hear it from her. He knew he had a tendency to eat his own heart; every woman he'd ever met had complained about it, from Lori, to Carol- even his mother, when she was still alive, had told him he was worse than a dog with a bone when he was wrestling with himself. But unlike Lori, Michonne didn't hide from it, and unlike Carol, her real-talk was forbearing, load-lightening. She hadn't let him off the hook, but there was clemency in her tone that made him want to give himself a break for once.

Then she'd confessed what he'd wanted to hear so badly-that she was still stuck on that porch the same way he was- and all at once the heaviness returned. Didn't she know he had spent the last few weeks telling himself it was in his head? Convincing himself that the feeling wasn't mutual? Because if it was, the fact that he couldn't have her was nothing more than the proof he needed that there _were_ either/or's in life, despite Carol's optimistic pep-talk. He needed what Michonne gave him, but he also needed a little peace, and unless he had all of her, the two were mutually exclusive.

He glanced at the clock, counting the handful of hours he had until Carl would be up, and summoned some mental exercises he'd learned to force his mind to go blank. Tomorrow he would wake up to a new news cycle and fresh scrutiny, he might as well give tonight over to the past.

 **...**

The next morning, Michonne flipped her phone over nervously in her hand, trying to gather the courage she needed to try Rick again. She hadn't slept more than a few hours the entire night, the fight outside of the bar replaying on a loop in her head, and keeping her from finding any solace in her comfortable bed. On the one hand, she was appalled at the scene Mike had made. On the other, he'd erased any lingering doubt that she was doing the right thing.

All she wanted was to see Rick and tell him what she had tried to tell him on the phone the night before, but the other side of that coin was weighing on her. After last night, Rick needed this story even more than before, and she'd put a huge wrench in the plan. He'd been an innocent bystander in this thing between her and Mike, and he somehow ended up with the most to lose. Maybe Mike would cool off, sleep off his petty retaliation, but she somehow didn't think so. She was going to have to have to tell him and she wanted to do it in person. She typed out a message to him, quickly hitting the send button before she could lose her nerve.

" _I need to speak to you in person. Please, Rick. It's important."_

Rick was waving Carl off to school from the cab of his truck when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out, reading the message and running a hand over his face. He had woken up, feeling guilty for the way he'd handled the conversation the night before. Avoiding Michonne was childish, he knew that, but hanging up on her was just uncalled for, and the few short hours of sleep he'd had the night before had made that more clear. He sucked in a steadying breath and told himself he needed to do what needed to be done to get through until print time on this story. Then he could start over with erasing her from his mind.

" _I'll be in the city tomorrow,"_ he typed. " _I can meet you at the stadium."_

A few moments went by before the phone vibrated again. " _How about today? I can come to you."_

Rick glanced at the time. It was still early morning and he had the whole day until he had to meet with his pitching coach for his off-day workout.

" _OK. I'll be home all day."_ He sent her another message with his address and shoved the phone in his pocket. Putting the truck in gear, he maneuvered through the swarm of students making their way to class, and wondered just what exactly could be so important that she had to torture him with a face to face meeting.

 **...**

Michonne slowed as her GPS informed her she was approaching his address. The town where he lived- just outside the city proper- was not nearly as rural as King County, but there was a clear division between the busy streets in town, and the winding, tree lined road she was currently driving. She came upon a black, wrought-iron fence, typical of the larger homes in the area, with stone columns that flanked the driveway, and the voice on her phone told her to turn. She did, the nose of her car pushing past the greenery that hid most of the home from the street, and traveled down a gravel driveway that made a loop in front of a sprawling, two-story estate. It was beautiful, she thought, though less extravagant than some of the other homes in the area. Given the neighborhood, it still probably cost a small fortune, and it took her a moment to reconcile the small-town, country boy whom she had spent the week with, with the man that lived here full time.

Her nerves began to show themselves with a shaky hand on her steering wheel as she came to a noisy stop on the gravel, but she managed to make it out of her car, and up to the front door. She was nervous to tell him what she had to say about the story, but also, she wasn't sure how he would take the news of her and Mike- if any of what they had almost had was still on the table. It helped that she was still peeved at him for practically hanging up on her the night before, and she reminded herself that wasn't the action of someone who felt indifference. He still cared just as much as she did.

Rick opened the door before she had a chance to ring the bell, and ushered her into a foyer where jackets hung on the wall and shoes, mens and boys, littered the floor.

"Hey," he greeted, stepping into her personal space. She wondered if he did that with everyone, or if he couldn't help himself, just like she all of a sudden couldn't. Even after more time spent apart than together, he still felt instantly familiar, like he was a room that she had a secret key to and she'd slipped inside for somewhere to rest. He was trying to keep his tone cool, she could tell, but that electric feeling reappeared like magic as soon as they were back in each other's orbit. He was looking down at her, doing a poor job of hiding the way her presence was affecting him. "What did you need to talk to me about?"

Her nerves were gone; she could already feel his reaction. "I broke up with Mike," she blurted out.

Rick blinked a few times, his lips parting in surprise as if he'd just been spun around and come to rest in a completely new place. "What? When?"

"I wanted to tell you last night, that it was over between me and him, but you hung up before I could."

His face washed with guilt as he bowed his head to answer. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was a jerk, Michonne. I just...it's really over?"

"Yes," she said, quietly, suddenly feeling small under his intense stare.

Rick took a step closer to her, a cautious smile creeping onto his face. "And that's what you came here to tell me?"

"Yes," she whispered, deciding the next part could wait another moment. "So…can I have that kiss now?"

Rick's grin spread across his face and he wasted no time wrapping an arm around her waist and crushing his mouth to hers in the kind of kiss that stole all of your breath and left you so lightheaded that you could barely remember your name, let alone any problems you had before it began.

Even after all the times she'd imagined it, the sheer number of which she could now admit to herself, she still wasn't prepared for the way he felt pressed against her. He was greedy and indulgent, his plump bottom lip dominating hers while his tongue swept her top. His strong nose nuzzled and brushed against her in a sexy, sidelong version of an Eskimo greeting, giving her hints of his desire, while his hands remained respectfully stationary, one on her jaw and one on her hip.

"I was worried I'd missed my chance," she whispered against his lips, when he gave her a chance to catch her breath.

He replied with another quick taste, before stopping to agree. "Me too."

She pulled him back in with a fistful of his shirt, determined to let him know what she now did; that not ending up like this was never an option. The boldness of her gesture had his intensity flaring again and he tightened his embrace, nearly lifting her off of her feet as he gently tugged at her lip with his teeth. She was about to lose herself completely in the moment, and forget about anything and everything besides making up for lost time, when her eyes flew open at the sound of a chipper voice just past Rick's shoulder.

"Hi, Michonne," Carol sang, breezing past them and into the kitchen, as if she hadn't just caught them pawing at each other in broad daylight. Michonne's cheeks began to burn instantly, but Rick barely reacted, keeping his tight grip on her, and a smile on his face, as he moved to kiss her cheek. "Will you be staying for lunch?"

Michonne released the grip she had on Rick's shirt and dropped her face against his shoulder. "That sounds great," she mumbled shyly, as he shook with laughter beneath her. Lunch sounded like the perfect time to tell him the rest of the news she had to share.

…

Michonne and Carol were both looking at him curiously, waiting for his response. Michonne had just finished telling him that the story Hershel had commissioned was about to die on the vine, and he knew he should be more concerned, but frankly he was still reeling over the fact that she was sitting at his table in the first place.

"Rick, this is a big deal after what happened last night," Michonne said, when he didn't answer. "The timing couldn't be worse. I'm so sorry."

He couldn't help the inopportune smile that burst onto his face; her apologizing for breaking up with Mike was laughable. "It's all going to work out," he said, suddenly sure of it. If this thing was what put him into retirement, so be it. After his conversation with Shane the previous night, he'd resigned himself to the deal he seemed to be beholden to- career or something more- and the terms hadn't changed, only the prize. As far as he was concerned, he'd just beat the house.

"I hope you're right," Michonne said. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, and he smiled at the fact that he could already read her signs. She was nervous.

"I am," he said, reaching under the table to squeeze her hand.

"So what's Plan B?" Carol asked Rick, from her spot leaning against the countertop. She glanced at Michonne and they shared a worried look that summoned him back to the issue at hand.

"Well, first things first, I guess we have to tell Hershel. This is his baby. After that, I'll let Gregory know and let him handle things from there." Michonne scoffed audibly at the mention of his publicist. "No?" he asked, intrigued.

"Sorry. It's just that...where did you get this guy? He doesn't seem to have the first idea about media exposure. Or at least the good kind."

"This is what I've been saying," Carol sighed.

Rick could feel a gang-up coming on, but it only made him smile. "He works with Walsh," he defended. "He came highly recommended."

The two women shook their heads simultaneously and he sat back in his chair, rethinking every decision he'd ever made on his own. "What do you two suggest?"

"Maybe Michonne should be your publicist," Carol offered.

"No," she countered with a visible wince. "I'm just a writer."

"A journalist…"

"A freelancer...sports isn't even my typical field."

"First time for everything."

Rick watched the two volley over the idea, becoming more convinced by the minute.

"You know the industry, and the client," Carol said, tossing a thumb over her shoulder at Rick who had been effectively forgotten in the conversation. "All you have to do is figure out how to work the two together."

"You obviously know what Gregory is doing wrong," Rick offered with a shrug. "That's a good place to start."

Michonne let out a long breath, still worrying her lip. "Let's tell Hershel about the story first, then we will decide what comes next."

Rick nodded. He didn't miss that she'd said 'we' and he considered that a win.

"Well," Carol said, "Good luck with that. You're going to need it." With that she left the room, pausing to tap her fingers on Rick's cheek in what he knew was her attempt at being discreet, while issuing an 'I told you so' in regards to Michonne. He didn't mind the call out, though.

When they were left alone, Rick ditched the restraint he'd been showing and reached across the table to take Michonne's hand. She turned to look at him, her pensive expression melting away into a pretty smile.

"So," she said, batting her eyelashes bashfully, "are we going to tell Hershel about this?" She glanced down at their intertwined fingers, then back at his face.

Rick blew out a breath. If Hershel was going to be upset, he didn't want to give him a reason to pin any blame on her. "How about this?" he offered. "We'll break things to him one at a time. We'll start with the story and see how he takes it."

"Alright," she agreed, with a bashful smile. "When?"

"After the game tomorrow. He already wants to talk to me about last night, and I fly out Sunday for four days on the road."

"I guess it's as good a plan as any," she sighed.

…

"Get in here!" Hershel boomed as soon as Rick appeared in the doorway of his spacious office. After the game, he'd changed into jeans and met Michonne in the lobby of the stadium and now he was standing in front of her, hoping to take the first blows. "For God's sakes, son. What in the hell were you-?" The old man paused when Rick took a step inside, revealing Michonne's additional presence. Rick let her step in front of him, ushering her to the chair in front of Hershel's desk with a hand on her back. If Hershel noticed the gesture, he didn't say anything, too caught up in the impending flogging.

"Michonne...why are you-?" His tone softened slightly when she entered, but he continued right on with his flustered tirade. "Oh it doesn't matter, it's good you're here. I know you've already given the story to your editor, but in light of recent developments-"

"Hershel, I asked her to come," Rick said, cutting him off. "I know what happened the other night looked bad-"

"Bad? Rick, do you have any idea what is being said now? At some point this thing is going to spiral far enough that we can't pull it back. We were trying to get out in front of that by hiring Michonne, but you just gave it a solid lead."

"Hershel," Michonne interrupted, with a quick glance in Rick's direction, "about the story...I have some more bad news."

He stopped pacing behind his desk then, tilting his head at her. "What is it? You said it went well; it was almost ready for press." He shot a look at Rick that he understood to be accusatory. For what he wasn't sure.

"The story is done," she said, "but it won't be printed. At least not by Mike...we...broke up."

"Broke up? Now? After all of this time, Michonne; you couldn't give it another week or so?" Hershel seemed genuinely pained by this information, and for a moment Rick thought he was going to need to suggest the aging man sit down. "And Mike," he continued, "Why on earth would he take it out on you professionally? That doesn't sound like him."

"It wasn't Michonne's fault," Rick said, wanting to keep the target firmly on his own head. Michonne could break it to him gently why Mike reacted the way he did, but Rick could at least make sure Hershel remembered who was really at fault in the first place.

Hershel's gaze bounced between the two of them. Michonne was seated on the edge of the chair looking up at Rick, while he perched on the edge of the desk, just inside of her personal space. He hadn't even noticed their legs were pressed together, until he felt the heat of Hershel's stare.

Realization was dawning on Hershel's face, and he brought a hand to his head, massaging his greying temples and letting out a long sigh before speaking. "I guess maybe I should have thought this through a little, before I sent two of my favorite people off to spend the week together." Despite his blooming anger, he chuckled quietly under his breath, turning toward her. "Michonne," he said, smiling at her in that paternal way he had about him. "Honey, I want you to know I chose you for this on purpose."

Michonne questioned him with her eyes, her posture straightening.

"Oh, I could have hired anyone to write this, and I'm sure if I had asked him myself, Mike would have run it. He and I have spent enough time together. But, I wanted this for you. I wanted to see you get a byline in something bigger than the current events section in the Times. I know this isn't your field, but The Sporting News is a big publication and it would have opened up a lot of doors for you."

Rick shifted his gaze to Michonne as Hershel explained his master plan. He had been so focused on the fallout for him, he hadn't even considered that not having the story printed could be bad for her as well. He wove his hand underneath his cap and scratched at his head, trying to think of any possible way that they could get things back on track. Maybe he could talk to Mike himself, man to man, but he realized how a conversation like that would have gone if Negan had approached him after Jessie. Probably pretty poorly, considering how he reacted over a girl whom he'd had a fraction of the feelings for that Michonne elicited.

"Hershel," she said. "I appreciate that, but this thing with me and Mike was a long time coming. Sure, the timing sucks, but I don't regret it. I'm sure I'll get my chance, but right now we need to worry about Rick. What happened the other night wasn't as bad as it looks, even without the story, there has to be a way to rein this in."

Rick smiled at the way she was ready to go to bat for him; he had never experienced that kind of loyalty from a woman and it intrigued him. He'd told Michonne what happened wasn't what it seemed, and she'd believed him, just like that. "It's true, Hersh," he said, sitting up just a little bit taller. "The guy was a shark. He was in my face. He wasn't some dad waiting on a momento for his kid."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, son. But it doesn't matter much now, does it?" Hershel finally sank down into his own leather chair, placing his elbows on the desk. "The world is only as real as our perception, and right now the perception is that you've got a anger problem, and it's affecting your ability to play. Keep your stats high and your image higher, I've told you that since you joined this club."

"Yes, sir," Rick nodded, plunging back into diffidence under Hershel's strong gaze.

"Maybe I can work on Mike," Michonne said, her fingernail between her teeth.

Rick almost jumped off the desk. "No," he said, adamantly. Maybe he was still in the process of convincing himself that this was real, but the idea of her groveling to her ex over him didn't sit right.

"Rick," Hershel said, "be reasonable."

"I am. Any coverage we have to beg for isn't going to have the same effect. At this point they're already scrambling to fill the slot the story was going to take. Everyone at the magazine knows it's been pulled, and if it reappears all of a sudden, the rumors will fly from there. They'll say he did it as a favor for Michonne and that isn't good for either one of us."

Michonne's shoulders slumped again. "He's right."

"And what do you think the rumors are going to be when his people catch sight of the two of you together after the story is cut last minute? This city is smaller than it looks. You two are a tabloid headline waiting to happen."

"We'll keep it under wraps," Michonne said. Rick spun around to look at her, irritated that he was going to have to deny the best thing to happen to him in a long time. "Just until it blows over," she said, noticing the change in his expression. "And it will."

"Alright," he agreed. "For now."

"In the meantime, you see what Gregory can do for you," Hershel said to Rick.

It was Michonne's turn to spin around in her seat. "Speaking of that…"

…

"Well so much for me taking you out," Rick said, glancing around the empty parking lot as he held open his truck door for her to climb in. He'd picked her up outside of her apartment before their mandated sequester, with the intention of sharing dinner and drinks together after what they knew would be a tough conversation. Now Michonne was getting back in his vehicle for what she still hoped would be more than just a ride home.

"I don't mind," she offered. "I could go for a do-over in the movie night category...since we have to stay in."

"No way." Rick shut her door and came around to climb into the driver's seat. "You're still on suspension."

"What?" she squealed, surprising herself with her girlish tone. "My suspension is longer than yours, and you decked a guy."

"I don't make the rules," he said, with a grin.

She crossed her arms in playful dissent, though inwardly smiling at how easy he was to joke with. It was refreshing to be with someone who didn't take themselves so seriously. "Alright then, take-out and a bottle of wine? I know you're not so impressed with the city, but there's a nice view of the river from my apartment, and there's lots of places with delivery."

"All that's missing is the thunder and lighting," he drawled. Somehow, she didn't think they would need it.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: sorry for the wait on this chapter! And thanks again for all of your reviews :)**

 **xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Their Thai food sat on the coffee table, quickly getting cold, while Rick's hands dipped into the back of Michonne's jeans again. She was seated in his lap, her chest pressed against his and her hands stroking the now-smooth planes of his face while he methodically tasted and explored her mouth. She'd barely gotten through giving him the tour of the historic home-turned-apartment building where she lived, when the tension of standing in the same room without touching each other became too much to bear. Pausing only to pay the delivery guy, and set out the food they'd ordered, they'd been like this since they arrived forty-five minutes ago.

"I guess being forced to hide out isn't so bad." He muttered against her ear, before taking the lobe between his teeth and gently sucking. She shivered, and he slid his hands up to her waist, rubbing circles with his thumbs as he squeezed.

"No," she said, breathlessly. "It's not bad at all."

"Was this your plan all along?" he asked with a grin. "When you told Hershel we would keep things under wraps, were you just trying to get me to your apartment?"

She laughed out loud with her head thrown back, the sight forcing him to shift beneath her to find some friction to soothe the growing bulge in his pants. He was trying his hardest to maintain his Southern manners and follow her lead, but he was already straining against his jeans. Now the sweet sound of her laughter, and they way she moved up and down his body while she kissed him, was threatening to drive him more crazy than Negan liked to claim he was.

Michonne was not oblivious to his physical reaction, because when she looked at him again, her eyes had changed from playful to sultry, and she had her lip pulled between her teeth. She slid her hands down his chest and over his stomach, until her fingers wrapped around his belt buckle. He swallowed reflexively at the anticipation. "Shit, Michonne," he hissed, as she worked the buckle free, then moved onto his zipper, unwrapping him slowly. "I know this is technically only our first date, but..."

"No," she said, her voice melting to a purr as she toyed with the trail of hair that dipped into his boxer shorts. "This is our third date; you took me fishing, and to the park to play baseball…"

He chuckled at her, lamenting the fact that he couldn't treat her to the kind of night she deserved. "When this all blows over, I owe you a real date."

"This is perfect," she whispered, quieting him with a finger to his lips.

"Yeah?" he asked. He parted his lips, capturing her finger between his teeth and she giggled.

"Yes. Besides, I broke up with my boyfriend for you. We might as well make it official." She slipped away from him then, moving to stand between his knees, and tugged the t-shirt she was wearing over her head, tossing it on the floor with a playful smirk. "That is, unless you still want to keep things...professional."

Rick groaned, feeling the embarrassment of his own words tinting his skin pink as he stood to gather her into his arms. He kissed her again, moving down her neck with his teeth and tongue, hoping to make amends for his behavior, since he was lucky enough to get the chance. "Actually," he said, pulling away to flash her a wolfish grin, "I think I'd like to see just how unprofessional we can get."

She giggled again, her expression demuring under his gaze, and it spurred him on. He suddenly saw that he had the same effect on her as she did on him. "Which way?" he whispered, leaning into her ear and letting his breath tickle the hairs on her neck, making them stand on end.

She hooked her fingers into his jeans, his belt and fly still hanging open, and walked backwards down a short hallway, pulling him along with her. When they got to the door to her bedroom, she led them inside and took a seat on the bed in front of him. She reached for him, running her hands eagerly up and down his thighs as he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor.

The look she was giving him- girlish and sexy at the same time- set his cock to stone and he had to reach down and relieve some of the pressure with his hand. Cupping her face with his free hand, he leaned down to kiss her slowly, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to slow himself down. He had been imagining this for too long to rush it; dreaming about her since that first morning in King County, when she'd come downstairs in those tiny pajama shorts, and he'd had a vision of hoisting her onto the kitchen table, pulling them aside, and making her his breakfast.

Michonne leaned back onto the mattress, pulling him with her as she scooted to the center. He settled between her legs, her knees bent on either side of him, and he pressed himself into her while they kissed, his hands and mouth in a race to mark every part of her body.

"This is so much better than movie night," she said.

"Especially when you're picking." He pulled her lip between his teeth, sucking until she was pawing at her jeans, trying to slide them down over her hips.

Rick sat up on his knees, grabbing the tight denim, and with one quick pull stripped her lower half until she was left wearing only a pair of white, cotton and lace underwear that matched her bra. The set was both casual and sexy as hell against her dark skin. Fitting, he thought, for a woman who could look like an entire meal, covered in mud on the bank of a river.

Collapsing back onto her, he ran his thumb along the lace trim of her bra and whispered in her ear. "Did you wear this for me?" he asked, feeling her shudder beneath him. He wasn't trying to make her squirm, but now that he knew he could, he couldn't keep that confidence from spilling into his tone.

"I might have considered it when I put it on," she said. She was flirting back, but there was a nervousness in her voice that he wanted nothing more than to obliterate. She was beautiful and he could barely control himself; she didn't need to be shy.

"I like it," he said, kissing the tops of her breasts. "Can I take it off?"

She nodded, sucking in a sharp breath, as he pulled the cup of her bra down, letting her spill into his hand. "You're so fucking gorgeous, Michonne," he said, pausing to flick his tongue over her nipple. "I've wanted to do this for a long time."

"Do it then," she whispered, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra and shimmy out of it. He didn't have to be told twice. He sat up, yanking his jeans down and kicking them off as smoothly as he could, then slid her panties down her legs as she watched him with hooded eyes.

He nudged her legs apart with his knee, settling back down between them. She was looking up at him with a smile that was comfortable, and eager, and had a hint of emotion that he both recognized and relished in.

"You ok?" he asked, brushing her hair off of her shoulder and smoothing his thumb over her skin.

"Yes. This is just...it's intense, right?"

"Yeah," he agreed. He was taken by her confession. He'd felt the same way himself- like if he couldn't have her he might not survive. He'd never felt this kind of compulsive pull with a woman before. He found it exhilarating, but he could see how it could be unnerving. He kissed her again, more chastely. "We can slow down if you want."

"No!" she nearly shouted, causing him to laugh. "That's definitely not what I meant." She reached for him, pulling him back to her, and kissed him hungrily.

Their flesh pressed together, and her fingers digging into his waist, he was suddenly aware that they were well past the point of logistics. He pulled up to his forearms, clearing his throat before glancing between them. "I...um...don't have anything," he confessed. "With me, I mean...a condom. Or, you know, either way you took that...I don't."

Michonne brought her hand to her mouth, giggling. His own mouth turned up into a lopsided grin as he chuckled with her, glad to see any timidness fading away in light of his stammering.

"It's ok," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "I'm on the pill."

He nodded, relieved that all of the boxes had been checked and he could finally close the remaining distance between them. They locked eyes, and he could feel her pulse beating steadily under his hand as he pushed into her with one slow thrust. Michonne gasped as she adjusted to him, and both of their eyes slipped closed. Intense was an understatement, he thought. Being inside of her felt downright life-changing.

They fell into a rhythm after a while, her hips rising to meet his, letting him go deeper with each thrust until he was completely buried inside of her tight walls. This was too good; the anticipation, the look on her face, the noises she was making-he wasn't going to last. He'd never been one to leave a woman behind, and he was also acutely aware that she had probably been with Mike in this very bed not that long ago- he was determined to erase those memories and replace them with ones starring himself.

He rocked into her a few more times, relishing in her audible reaction to each stroke, then let himself slip from her warmth.

Michonne's eyes flew open as he pulled away, and he detected a slight scowl on her face as she tried to stutter out a complaint. He only grinned; he was going to take care of her first, then he'd be right back where he belonged. He kissed her hard to head off her objections, his fingers taking his place inside her, and she went back to the satisfied moans from before. Releasing her lips, he traveled downward, pausing at her cleavage for a practice lick, then her belly button. He could feel her stomach muscles contract the lower he went, and when he got to his destination, he put a firm hand on the back of her thigh, bending her leg and throwing it over his shoulder.

"Rick," she said with a sharp breath.

"Can I?" he asked, his nose already rubbing against her.

She nodded, her lip between her teeth again, and he wasted no time diving into her warmth with his tongue. She cried out a hybrid version of his name blended with an expletive, and the sound split his face with a grin as he reveled in all of the details of his fantasy coming true. Determined to push her over the edge quickly and efficiently so he could reclaim his spot inside her, he listened intently to her reactions, letting them guide him as he worked. He knew from his profession that it was patience and dedication to perfection that yielded results, and this was no different. She dug her heels into the mattress and he increased his speed; she froze in place, arching her back, and he knew he'd found a good spot. It didn't take long until her thighs were trembling around his ears and she was bucking into him, painfully clutching at his hair.

He sat up, trying not to look too proud of himself, and took in the sight of her eyes clenched shut and her lips parted as she tried to catch her breath. His eyes lingered on her breasts as he gave himself a couple more strokes, but he was dying to get a good view of her from behind- sans tiny shorts or tight jeans.

"Will you turn over for me?" he asked, watching a smile grace her face at the request. She did as he asked, and his hands immediately went to her ass, kneading her soft flesh. She moaned as he shuffled closer, burying himself inside her in one stroke. He bent over her, one hand on her shoulder, the other holding him up as he latched onto the back of her neck with his mouth, alternating between sucking at her skin and dragging his teeth.

She called out after one particularly perfect thrust, and he felt himself lose control, pressing his face into her hair, as he spilled into her.

 **...**

Michonne clung to the pillow, Rick's breath hot on her ear as his movements slowed above her. She wanted to say something, anything, but her speech had abandoned her. She'd heard stories of sex like this, but she hadn't believed it until now. It wasn't that he did anything special- well maybe that thing with his tongue- or that he knew some secret she had yet to discover, but somehow her body responded to him in a way she didn't know it could. She thought back to the way he had made her quiver just by touching her hand in that cafe- she should have known.

He pressed his lips to her cheek once, twice, then dropped his damp forehead onto her shoulder. She could feel his arms shaking from the exertion of holding himself up, and she pulled to her side, just enough for him to drop one arm and lie flush against her. He immediately used his free hand to wrap around her waist and pull her even closer.

He was trailing lazy kisses along her jaw and shoulder when her words came back to her. "That was amazing," she whispered. His eyes were still closed, but he grinned against her neck, nuzzling his nose into her hair and taking a deep breath.

"You're amazing," he said. She felt his shoulders go lax, his head feeling heavy in the crook of her neck, and she swept her fingers slowly up and down his arm.

She wanted to fall asleep where she lay, trapped in his embrace and all of her senses invaded by him, but her stomach suddenly began grumbling loudly and painfully, causing them both to laugh.

Rick peered at her from one crystal-blue eye, the other still hidden by the pillow. "You think the food is still good?" he asked.

She did a quick mental calculation as to how long it had been sitting out, then quickly dismissed any danger with a note of the salt and preservative content in the carby meal. "I'm willing to chance it," she said.

Rick laughed, rolling away from her and exiting the messy bed. "Stay here," he said.

He returned moments later with two takeout boxes, silverware, and a couple of wine glasses- the bottle of chilled white tucked under his arm.

Michonne took the food from him, smoothing the sheet over her legs and laying out the utensils, while Rick poured her a glass of wine.

"So, Hershel called you one of his favorite people," she said, handing him a box with a fork and taking her glass.

"I caught that," he chuckled, filling his mouth with noodles. He finished chewing before continuing. "I can say the same for him. He's always welcomed me and Carl with open arms, making sure we had whatever we needed."

She stared at him, her mind drifting back to their one degree of separation all this time. "How is it we've never been introduced before?" she asked, taking her own bite.

"I don't know." He looked as though he were really considering it, and she waited eagerly for whatever explanation he could come up with. Instead he only offered her a shrug. "Maybe now was just the right time."

She considered that for a moment. Besides the fact that she was with Mike when they met, it did seem like the exact right moment for her to find someone like him. She'd been restless for awhile now- unsure in her career, unhappy with her relationship with Mike- then Rick had come along and showed her that there were still some surprises left in life, if you were open to seeing them. Then, of course, there was the situation Rick found himself in. From what she could see, he was at a roadblock too. Just as disenchanted with his own status quo. Though he had a better handle on what exactly he had been looking for. She didn't know what was worse, not knowing what you want, or knowing what you want and not being able to find it. Either way, the weight of what they'd both been missing had finally become too heavy when circumstance put them in each other's path.

"So tell me something," she said, watching the muscles in his jaw contract as he savored his meal. "When we were in Hershel's office, you didn't seem all that worried about the fact that we lost the story. Why not?"

He shifted, avoiding her eyes, and she noticed his posture tense. "It'll be fine, Michonne," he said. "I'll lose a few sponsorship deals, but I don't even drink Pepsi and I was thinking about getting a new truck anyway." He smiled at her in a way that was meant to end the conversation, but she wasn't willing to let him off the hook.

"Rick, you don't deserve to lose anything over this. We can find a different way to fight back."

He shrugged again, looking unconcerned. "I'm more worried about you," he said, pivoting. "Now that Hershel explained why he picked you to write it."

She shook her head. "It's not about me."

"It's all about you," he said, finally looking at her. "This whole thing. That's what I meant about it being the right time."

"I don't understand."

He set his food aside and shifted under the sheet to look at her. His eyes were darting around her face as if he were gauging her response before he'd even said what he had to say. He took a deep breath, letting the outward release push his mouth into a sheepish grin. "I used to look around at my life," he said, "everything I have, everything this world just...hands me, and I thought wanting one more thing was greedy. But I realize now it wasn't one more thing, it was _the_ thing. So...I'm just saying...if it all goes away and you're what I come away from this mess with, it was worth it."

Michonne's lip quivered into her own smile, as she glanced down at the sheets between them. She was touched by his confession- more than he probably knew, given the fact that she'd spent the last year feeling like an accessory for someone else's success rather than the definition of it- but she had just learned a tough lesson about sitting back and taking what came, instead of reaching out for what you could have, and she didn't want to be his path of least resistance. "Rick," she said quietly, laying a hand on his arm. "This isn't a trade off."

"But if it is-"

"It's not," she repeated, looking him in the eye. "Happiness isn't something that's rationed out, Rick. Everything you have, you earned. Even this." She gestured between the two of them with a smirk, and he chuckled quietly. "You feel like your life is the result of some dice throw because no one ever recognized how hard you were working for it, but you did earn it. You made this happen. If you want it all, you can have it all. I know you can."

Rick sighed, moving the rest of their meal out of the way and reaching for her. "I do want it," he whispered against her hair. He leaned back against the headboard, and tugged her arm until she was back in his lap. "But that goes for you, too. Maybe we try to get your story published somewhere else."

"Mike's going to make things difficult for me," she said, leaning forward and letting him wrap his arms around her as she rested on his chest. "He knows a lot of people. And besides, I know Hershel meant well, but this wasn't the kind of assignment that was going to lead to the things I want to write about."

"Alright then," he said. "What do you want to write about? I know a lot of people too- comes with the territory- maybe I can finally put some of those connections to use."

"We're supposed to be hiding this," she said. "I can't have you making calls on my behalf. Besides, I appreciate it, but something Mike said stuck with me. I know you would never hold it over my head the way he did, but I want to do this on my own. For me."

Rick nodded, his eyes drifting off as he mulled that over. "I understand," he finally said. "The offer stands, though. There's no shame in letting people help you along the way. And you know, if you were in charge of my P.R., like Carol said, we wouldn't have to hide. We could be seen together...professionally."

"We're back to professional?" she laughed. "After all of this?" She pulled away to raise an eyebrow at him before glancing at their intimate position.

"You just said I could have it all."

"Yes," she laughed, leaning in to kiss him. "I did."

…

The next morning, Rick lay awake listening to Michonne's quiet breaths as she slept beside him. He'd woken just behind the sun, but despite the early hour, he was going to have to leave her soon. He had a flight to catch for a four day stretch on the road, and he wanted to spend some time with Carl before he left. He smiled to himself, anticipating Carl's reaction when he found out he'd be seeing Michonne a lot more often, and he put the reunion at the top of his list for when he got home.

Michonne looked perfect laying there, curled on her side with just a thin sheet covering her curves. The only thing he wanted less than to wake her, was to leave without spending as much time with her as possible. He rolled onto his side and wrapped an arm around her waist, resting his head behind hers on the pillow and nuzzled his face into her hair. She stirred, her arm reaching behind her to touch his face.

"It's early," she whispered with a smile. She didn't open her eyes, and he took another glance at her bare skin, putting his resolve to the test before replying.

"I know," he sighed. "I wish I could stay, but I have a plane to catch." She finally turned to look at him with a stretch of her arms above her head and her toes curling into the mattress. The sunlight streaming through her drapes painted a pattern of mismatched shapes on her skin and he reached out to trace one with his finger as she spoke.

"When will you be home?"

"End of the week." It suddenly felt like an eternity. "I'm pitching tomorrow night."

"I know," she said, with a coquettish grin.

He shifted to accommodate his physical response to her early morning flirtation, and maybe the fact that she was keeping tabs on him. "You gonna watch me?"

"Of course. I've become partial to the sight of you in that uniform. Although, now I'm partial to this." She lifted the sheet, perusing his body the way he had hers, and he chuckled at her before another thought occurred to him.

"Maybe you shouldn't watch actually," he sighed. "It's my first away start since my suspension. Home crowd's been pretty kind, but we're back on Negan's old turf. I was lucky to be on suspension last time we were there."

"Are you worried?"

"A little," he confessed. "Losing an endorsement contract is one thing, but if I can't pull my numbers up, I'm gonna lose my spot in the rotation. The crowd's been getting in my head lately and I'm running out of chances with Morgan."

Michonne didn't try to say anything, instead she just tightened her hold on him. It was the same as when he'd told her about Lori, he realized, how with just a small physical gesture she could make him feel completely taken care of. She seemed to instinctively know what he needed. He wondered how that could be possible, but the last thing he was going to do was question it. He leaned into her, kissing the top of her head, but she was already pulling out of his embrace.

"Roll over," she said, pulling up to her knees beside him and letting the sheet fall away. He blinked a few times at the sight of her, trying to figure out what she was doing and praying he had time for whatever it was. "Come on."

"Alright." He held the sheet with one hand while he flopped over onto his stomach. He felt her hand on the back of his head, gently pushing him into the pillow and he obliged, bending an arm to rest his face on. His visual gone, he traced her movements by the dips in the mattress, until he felt her throw one leg over his waist, straddling him at the lowest part of his back. Her warm center on his skin and the swell of her ass against his had him grinding involuntarily into the mattress and he began to question how torturing him was going to help, but he stayed the course.

His budding excitement finally melted into relaxation when her fingers found his scalp, threading through his curls and lightly scratching at his skin. He let out a moan into the crook of his arm as she gently tugged at his hair with both hands, before moving them to the back of his neck and pressing her thumbs into the hollow points just below his hairline.

"What are you doin'?" he mumbled. It was mostly rhetorical; he didn't care as long as she kept at it, but she answered.

"Pressure point massage. This one is for concentration, focus, clearing your head. Stuff like that. Stay still."

"Where'd you learn that?" he asked, barely moving his lips for fear of disturbing her.

"I don't know," he felt her bounce and imagined her shrugging her shoulders. "I picked it up along the way. I find it helps with writer's block, maybe it will help with whatever is blocking you."

Rick raised his eyebrows. He'd heard of massage to loosen up his muscles, but he'd never experienced someone trying to massage his mind. He wouldn't know if it worked until he was on the mound, but he did know John Negan was the last thing he was thinking about at the moment. "It feels good," he said, as she increased the pressure and rotated the circles she was making in the opposite direction.

"Good."

"You travel? I could get you a flight." He was only half-joking, though he was pretty sure Hershel would have his head if he brought Michonne along after being told to lay low.

"Not that far, cowboy," she said. "But I make house calls."

He smiled into the pillow. "When I get back, then. Carl would love to see you again. Maybe we can hide out at my place for dinner."

"I'll be counting down the days," she said, easing her thumbs out of his hair and sliding her palms over his shoulders for a more traditional rub down.

He groaned in pleasure. "Me too."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N Thank you all for your patience on these last two chapters! The next one is already mapped out in my head, so hoping it won't be long!**

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Rick sat in one of the plush leather chairs of the visiting team locker room, with his head tipped forward and his thumbs in the back of his neck, trying to find the spot Michonne had showed him that morning. He wasn't sure how much credence he put in the whole process, but at the very least, when he closed his eyes and turned up his music on his headphones, he could summon the feeling of her warm folds spread across his skin and her fingers digging into his scalp.

"Need some Advil, Grimes?" Shane plopped into the chair opposite him with a travel bag on his lap.

"What?"

"You got a headache?" he jutted his chin at Rick's ministrations, then began digging around the bag.

"No." He lowered his arms and tipped his face to the ceiling. "Just...it's a focus thing."

Shane's eyebrow quirked and his lips turned upward as he set his cleated feet up on the small table between them. "Ok. So, I saw you with that reporter heading into Hershel's office the other day. She's a hot little thing. You oughta introduce me."

Rick eyed him with the exact look he knew Shane was poking for. Keeping things quiet was one thing, but he wasn't about to let Shane think he had a shot with Michonne in order to keep a secret. "She's a journalist," he replied with more menace than he'd intended.

"What?"

"She doesn't report the news, she's a freelance journalist. She writes articles."

"Whatever. How's that coming?"

"It's not," he said. "Where'd you get Gregory by the way? The guy's kind of a hack."

"Ford recommended him."

Rick shook his head, glancing around at their fellow teammates, in various stages of getting ready to take the field. John Negan was closer to the tail end of ready, as he passed by them still wearing a suit and tie. "Sure is good to be home, boys," he said, ripping his jersey off of the hanger and laughing a sardonic cackle that was like nails on a chalkboard.

"You ready for this?" Shane asked when he had passed. "Last time was tense enough with you two on suspension. This oughta be one hell of a game."

Daryl joined them then, perching on the arm of Rick's chair. "Sure miss the days when he was wearing the opposite uniform."

"Screw that guy, man," Shane said, when Rick brought his fingers back to his neck. "You're due one. Perfect place to wipe that smile off his face."

"Tonight's the night, man," Daryl agreed, clapping Rick on the back. "I can see it in your face."

"What's that?" Rick asked.

"You got some sorta zen going on." Daryl waved his hand over Rick's face and Shane laughed. Rick tried to hold back his own smirk, but it appeared anyway, along with a memorized vision of Michonne sprawled out beneath him.

He had to admit, Negan's antics were having less of an effect on him than usual. "I'm feeling good," he said.

Daryl shared a look with Shane before winking at Rick. "Thatta boy."

…

"Look at this spread!" Eric picked carefully from the pile of hot wings, and chopped veggies, and crackers and cheese- everything Michonne considered to be _sports food_. This was her first time hosting an event like this, but if Eric was pleased, then she knew she had done it right. "I might have to do a column on game day snacks and have you as a contributor," he said.

"Oh please," Michonne said. "Just a few recipes I got from Pinterest." There were already enough articles on game day parties; she would know since she read about a hundred to prepare for the night. She wasn't sure why she was going to all this trouble. It was only Andrea, Eric and Aaron- her friends who were close enough to already know about her and Rick- but for some reason she felt like she was introducing a new boyfriend to the group, even though he wasn't actually in attendance, and they all already knew exactly who he was.

Aaron plopped down on her couch with an overflowing plate and wrapped an arm around her. "So, tell us about you and The Cowboy," he said.

"I still can't believe this is a thing." Andrea sat across from them in her oversized chair shaking her head. Michonne had only spilled their kiss at Rick's house to her nosy friend, nothing more, and she could feel her cheeks burning at the parts Andrea wasn't privy to. Andrea couldn't handle the latest chapter that had lasted into the current morning. "Only Michonne would bag a professional baseball player without even trying," she said.

"Who says I didn't try?" she joked.

"You know what I mean. You're completely oblivious to his existence while the rest of the world drools over him, and then you fall in love with him in a chain of events plucked straight out of a movie."

"Are you in love with him?" Aaron teased, eyes wide.

"Andrea is speaking out of turn," she replied.

"I see something in your eyes, Michonne. Either it's love or just whatever died a slow death under Mike's watch, but it's there."

Michonne squirmed a little in her seat under their collective gaze. Her thoughts had been consumed by Rick since he had left her bed that morning and the idea of Andrea reading those memories on her face was unnerving. She didn't have a lot of experience with being in love. She thought she was in love with Mike- showed how much she knew. But Rick was a whole new thing; one she hadn't had a chance to fully examine yet. Whatever it was, she knew she missed him already and the anticipation of watching him pitch tonight had her giddy enough for her best friend to take notice.

"Alright guys, the game's starting," she said, beckoning Eric in and taking a flying leap out of that conversation before someone else figured it out before she did.

Eric took the seat on the other side of Aaron and passed him a carrot stick, then turned up the volume with the remote.

"Michonne," Aaron said, crunching his veggie. "Are you going to be at the Children's Hospital fundraiser next weekend?"

"I am!" she exclaimed, having almost forgotten about any of her other assignments since starting Rick's story. "My editor snagged me a job covering it for the About Town section of City Living. Are you covering it for the paper?"

"Yep. Get to pull out the tux. Wanna carpool? I assume you can't be seen showing up with Rick."

"Why would Rick be there?" she asked, her brow furrowing and her belly starting to churn with a dawning realization as soon as he said it.

"Children's Hospital is one of the team's charities. Pictures with the players was part of the draw. His name was on the list."

"Shit," she muttered.

"Is that a bad thing?" Eric turned his attention from the National Anthem blaring from the TV and eyed her with concern.

"Oh…" Aaron seemed to suddenly have the same thought as Michonne. "Mike will most definitely be there."

"He most definitely will." Michonne put down the cracker she had been nibbling on, replacing it with her thumbnail between her teeth.

"If you can't go there with Rick anyway, maybe seeing the two of you there separately will calm Mike down a little." Andrea shrugged. "This could be the perfect opportunity."

"The perfect opportunity to prove our lie."

"Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing?"

"I guess so." It was Michonne's turn to shrug. It was one thing avoiding getting spotted around town while people's memories faded, but to be in the same room with Rick and pretend they weren't what they were felt wrong.

"There he is!" Andrea shouted, pointing to the screen just as the camera panned to a shot of Rick in the bullpen while his teammates took their at bat. He looked handsome and confident and Michonne's mind began replaying all of the highlights from their sleepover the night before until she could feel her cheeks burning. Pretending not to be with him, now that she had been with him like that, was going to be near impossible.

…

The air felt thick and humid as Rick kicked at the dirt around the bullpen with the toe of his cleat. It was the kind of muggy night that lifted all of the scents swirling around the stadium, jumbled them together and carried them to his nostrils like a waiter passing around a tray of hors d'oeurves. Hot dogs, popcorn, spilled beer, sweat. It didn't matter where they were, summer night games always smelled the same. He was vaguely aware of the P.A. system rumbling out a ramped up welcome to the home team's fans, the rising and falling of the crowd chatter as the announcer got more and more animated.

Ford had just batted in two runs and he and a rookie named Rhee were currently stationed at second and third base with two outs on the board when Rick watched Negan saunter up to the plate. For fear that the cameras would catch it, he held in the eye roll that was begging to materialize as the crowd erupted in a chorus of hoots and hollers for their beloved ex-pat. It didn't matter he was now dressed as the enemy, Negan was as big of a deal as he claimed to be in this place.

He went through his ridiculous routine of tapping the end of his bat on the corners of the plate, kicking up a dirt cloud that the umpire was probably scowling at, then he proceeded to cross himself like the patron saint of jack-asses and blew a kiss behind him to the closest row of fans.

Asshole, Rick thought. Traitor. Cocky, son of a bitch. He ripped his hat off of his head and jammed his thumbs into his hairline once more, conjuring Michonne's scent. He stayed that way, his eyes closed in meditation, until he heard the second peeling _stee-rike_ from the umpire and glanced at the count: 0-2. He let out a tiny chuckle, then chastised himself for momentarily rooting against his own team.

The other team's pitcher wound up and launched an impressive fastball that whizzed by a dumbstruck Negan and- Rick suspected in response to the dust cloud incident- the umpire raised his voice a few notches to call an exuberant _yeer-out!_ causing a mixture of elation and depression to war within the crowd.

Rick stood, catching Ford's eye as he trotted off of the island where Negan had stranded him, and forced his face into a neutral expression as Negan lingered at the plate, arguing over the call.

The announcer launched into a script from the team's sponsors as the two opponents switched sides, and the pitching coach opened the door of the bullpen, nodding for him to take the field. Rick tucked his glove under his arm and flipped his cap back onto his head, taking the first few steps onto the impeccable green grass just as the sound system began blaring out the chorus of Waylon Jenning's: _Momma's Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys._ He hung his head and chuckled at the taunt, surprising himself with his good sense of humor. It was funny, he had to admit. Maybe Negan's last at bat had made it funnier. It wasn't so funny, however, when he reached the mound and glanced into the stands to see nearly every fan in the place holding up a sheet of paper that he couldn't quite make out, but somehow knew was for him.

Daryl came jogging out to the mound to meet him, his hands on his hips and a concerned look on his face as the music filtered out and a chorus of boos replaced it. "Ignore it, man," he said, as Rick narrowed his eyes and focused in on what it was they were waving around.

…

"What is that?" Michonne asked, pointing at the television. Her guests were taking the momentary break in action to refill their plates and Aaron came wandering back to see what she was pointing at.

"Oh, man," he said. The camera zoomed in on the crowd, giving them a close up of a row of fans all waving the same picture: a mass copied 8.5x11 close up of Rick gripping the collar of the autograph shark, a vicious scowl on his face.

"Why would they do that? That's not nice!"

"Oh, Michonne," Andrea said. "These teams hate each other. I'm sure Rick was expecting some taunting."

"Are they booing him?" She was incredulous. She had just started to like this game but this was putting a bad taste in her mouth. "How childish!"

"It's part of the game. Maybe there will be a brawl!" Andrea's eyes lit up.

"A brawl? Like a fight?"

"Andrea, it's not hockey," Aaron said. "Michonne, don't worry. I'm sure he's used to this kind of thing."

Aaron's expression didn't look as confident as his words. Michonne remembered Rick's face that morning when he had told her that maybe she shouldn't watch the game. He may have been expecting it, but she certainly wasn't. She felt her hands ball into fists and her eyes narrow as she watched him throw a couple of warm up pitches. He looked ok, she surmised. She would be able to see it if he was rattled; she could read him now, even on television. She, however, didn't know if she'd ever been so angry.

"So are all the games against this team like this?"

"Sort of," Eric answered. "It's a big rivalry."

"I don't know if I can take this."

Andrea laughed. "Look at you," she said, shaking her head. "You're gonna have to toughen up if you're going to be dating a ball player."

"Hey, at least Negan had a shitty start," Aaron shrugged. "Maybe he'll have one of classic meltdowns and help Rick out a bit."

The game ticked on slowly, and Michonne studied everything the announcers said as well as the conversation around her. It wasn't a hard game to understand- not like the time Mike had taken her to a college football game and she was so lost after the first quarter she pulled out her Kindle and caught up on a book- but there was still a lot more that she could learn about Rick's profession. Batting average calculations, and those big backwards K signs the crowd kept hanging up had her feeling like a tourist in a foreign city. Not to mention all of the acronyms: RBI, ERA, OBP. It was a whole new language and she was trying her best to decipher it without asking too many questions.

The bottom of the seventh inning came around and when the broadcast came back from a round of commercials, Michonne was surprised to see Rick back on the mound. During her research for Rick's story, she had brushed up on the different kinds of pitchers, learning that a starting pitcher was usually only allowed a certain number of pitches before handing over the game to a reliever. She glanced down at the pitch count at the bottom of the screen as Rick faced off against another batter and frowned. The game was now five to nothing with Rick's team leading, so she wondered why he was still in. Not that she minded watching him a little longer, but the health of his pitching arm was something Rick took very seriously after the injury his rookie year.

"I'm surprised Rick is still in," she said, secretly patting herself on the back for being able to participate in the conversation. "Isn't a hundred pitches usually the cut off?"

Her three friends glanced at each other with nervous expressions, and she furrowed her brow in confusion. In fact, no one had said anything about his performance since the fourth inning and he was having a great game.

"What? Is it because he is pitching so well? No one has even gotten a-"

"Stop!" Eric nearly shouted.

Michonne jumped in her seat, startled by the soft-spoken man's tone.

"You're not supposed to talk about it," Aaron explained.

Michonne was lost. "Talk about what?"

"How he's doing," Andrea said carefully, gesturing to the score. "The...stats of the game."

Michonne had no idea what they were talking about. She sighed loudly and slumped back into her chair, focusing her gaze on Rick's handsome profile.

…

Rick wasn't usually a superstitious guy, but he decided then and there that Michonne was giving him a naked scalp massage before every game he pitched from now on. He closed his eyes for a moment, considering the logistics of that before he prepared to face the last batter. He was just hoping to pull out of his slump and make it past the third inning. Now, closing in on the only no-hitter he'd ever even come close to pulling off, he was thanking Hershel and God and even Jessie for giving him Michonne and her magic tricks.

He wasn't sure how she was able to rally him so easily, but ever since that morning when she had told him he could have it all, it was all he could taste. It had been years since he felt that kind of drive, the fire of competition burning in his belly. After Lori died, there had been so much guilt over his success that whenever he felt that excitement in his veins, he'd quickly squash it in the name of his debt. Playing became about proving himself over and over instead of about the joy he used to get from it. Michonne had come along and wiped all that away with a single affirmation. He'd forgotten what it was like to have someone rooting for him; not his team or his stats, but for him and his own personal happiness. One speech from her about taking what he deserved and his brain and his arm had clicked into gear. He didn't want any of this to fade away, and she'd promised him that having her didn't require it. It was freeing to admit to himself how badly he wanted that. How badly he wanted her, how badly he wanted his name back. To hear the pundits the next day praising him over this performance and to know that Michonne was watching right now and she would see him do it.

The world was his; all he had to do was take it.

…

The four of them sat on the edges of their seats, holding their breath, and also their tongues, as Rick wound up for a pitch on a full count. There was one out left in the game and though no one had explained it, Michonne could tell Rick was on the edge of a momentous win. She glanced at her friends' nervous expressions, then back to the television just in time to see the last strike land in the catcher's mitt and Rick's teammates descend onto the mound like a swarm of bees.

"That's it?" she shrieked. "He did it? What did he do?"

Aaron laughed while Andrea and Eric celebrated. "He did it. He pitched a no-hitter!"

"And that means...just what it sounds like?"

"Yes!" Aaron scooped Michonne up into a bear hug. "It's a big deal."

"What did you do to that man, Michonne?" Andrea asked with a huge grin on her face.

"It wasn't me," she said. "Mike already blamed me for the slump. Rick pulled himself out of it."

"Well, that was one hell of a game." Aaron said, setting her down on the ground. "Tell him congratulations for us. And Michonne, keep it up through October, ok?"

"I'll try my best."

It was well past her bedtime when her friends finally gathered their coats and headed for the door. The game had been over for awhile and they'd almost finished all of the beer and food.

"I'll see you next weekend," Aaron reminded her with one last wave as he and Eric headed for their car.

Andrea was the last to go. "I know I was teasing you," she said from the doorway as she shrugged on her coat. "But I'm really happy for you, Michonne. I can see a difference in you already. You seem content for the first time in a long time." She leaned in for a hug and squeezed her hand. "I'm also insanely jealous, but in a still happy for you way."

Michonne laughed. "Thanks, Andrea."

"You're welcome. And I want more details next time when the guys aren't here. You'd better tell me everything."

"Like what he wears to bed?"

"Exactly."

"Ok," she laughed. "Next time."

As soon as she closed the door, she heard her cell phone buzzing from the coffee table where she'd left it. A huge grin spread across her face. It could only be one person.

…

"Hey," Rick said, beaming as soon as he heard Michonne's greeting. "I know it's late. We just got back to the hotel and I wanted to talk to you before I went to sleep."

"I wanted to talk to you too. I'm glad you called."

"Did you watch the game?"

"I told you I would. I even invited friends over."

Rick chuckled at her new enthusiasm for the sport. "I'm glad it went the way it did then."

"Congratulations, Rick. I'm really proud of you. Are you feeling good?"

"I'm feeling great."

"Good."

A comfortable silence overtook the line as Rick smiled into the phone, imagining Michonne doing the same. "So about that dinner," he finally said. "How about the night I get back? I want to call Carl and let him know; he'll be excited."

"That sounds perfect. Hey, Rick, next weekend...are you going to the Children's Hospital Auction? Aaron said you were on the program."

Rick kicked off his shoes and leaned back on the king-sized bed in his hotel room. He hadn't bothered to turn on any lights, the cityscape offering a peaceful glow through the large street-side window. "Yeah. I've got some promotional photos to do. We do it every year. I wish I could take you. That might just be the kind of date I owe you."

"Actually, I'm assigned to cover it. I'll be there with Aaron."

Rick paused, a feeling of unease washing over him. "We have to be in the same room and pretend we don't know each other?" he asked. "I don't like that, Michonne."

"We don't have to pretend we don't know each other. Whether Mike prints it or not, we still worked together...professionally." She chuckled at the now loaded word, but Rick didn't join in. He was too busy imagining watching her mingle with the crowd on her own instead of by his side.

"Rick," she said quietly, when he didn't respond.

"What's it really matter, Michonne? This month's issue will be out by then. The story will be replaced and people will have forgotten all about it."

"I made some calls today to see about getting it published somewhere else."

"And?"

"No bites. Mike has gotten to them; I could tell by their tone. He may not have helped me get where I am, but he got here first and we have the same connections. He's going to be there; so will a lot of these other publications I'm trying. If they see us together and then hear from me about a story I want to print about you, how is that going to look? Kind of takes away from my objectivity."

Rick ran a hand over his face, sighing in frustration. "Alright," he said. "If that's what you think is best."

"It is. Besides, I told you I hate these things. I'd much rather have another night on the couch with you. The ballroom is just a short drive from my apartment..."

"I assume you mean separate drives?" The thought didn't quite soothe him.

"Just this time."

"Ok. But once this is over, I'm gonna take you on that date."

"Yes."

"And you'll come to a game?"

He could hear her smile in her tone and it brought his rushing back to his face. "Of course."


	12. Chapter 12

"Hi," Rick whispered, letting his tongue slip out to taste the lobe of Michonne's ear. It was early evening by the time he had landed back in town and gotten settled at home. He'd been counting down the minutes knowing Michonne was going to come by for dinner and now he was taking his time greeting her privately on the front steps of his house. "I missed you."

She cradled a bottle of wine under her arm and clutched his shirt between her fingers. "I missed you too."

Rick's hands smoothed up her back, slipping beneath the hem of her tank top before heading down to her behind, squeezing hard enough to lift her to her toes. "You know, I wasn't kidding, before. Next time I go on the road, you should come with me. You can write from the hotel, come to the game, spend the nights not missing me."

"Mmm. We'll see about that once we deal with the press situation."

Rick dropped his forehead to her shoulder and sighed. "Don't remind me. You know I'm not thrilled about having to play pretend Saturday night."

"I know," she said, grooming his hair back into place with her fingers. "But it's necessary and temporary. Now are you going to let me in? You're not the only one I missed. I haven't seen Carl since Georgia."

Rick chuckled and pulled away. He reached behind him and opened the front door, holding an arm out for her to lead the way. Before he had even followed her over the threshold, he heard Carl's excited exclamation echo through the first floor.

"Michonne!" he yelled, trotting down the open staircase two at a time.

"Hi, Carl." Rick beamed as he watched his son rush to greet her with an enthusiastic bear hug. Carol emerged from the kitchen, meeting him in the hallway with her own grin. "How have you been?" she asked when he let her go. "I brought you something." She set the wine she was carrying down and reached into her purse, digging for a moment before she pulled out a bag of gummy bears, all red. She turned to Rick as Carl bounced on his toes in excitement. "Is it ok?"

"Of course." She handed them over and Carl thanked her as he pulled open the little ribbon and dug in. "Don't eat the whole thing before dinner, Carl."

"Hi Carol," Michonne said, turning back to where the two of them stood. "What did you make? It smells amazing."

Carol reached for Michonne, greeting her with a hug. "Beef and broccoli in a Szechuan sauce. I hope you don't mind spicey. I toned it down a little for Carl."

"I don't mind at all. I feel bad you cooking for us when you can't even stay. Rick said you had the night off."

"Don't feel bad," she said with a sly grin. "He pays me well."

The two women laughed. "Do you have big plans tonight?" Michonne asked, following Carol into the kitchen with Rick trailing behind.

"I actually have a date," the older woman confessed.

Michonne took a seat at the kitchen island while Rick took out some wine glasses. "A date! That's exciting. Have you met him?" she asked, turning to Rick.

"No, she's being very secretive."

"I am not." Rick held the bottle up to Carol and she nodded, accepting a glass from him. "I just don't need him on my case."

"I already told her we were waiting up tonight. And he'd better come to the door to pick her up."

Carol waved him off, taking a large gulp of her wine. "Well, I'm off to get ready. You three enjoy your dinner."

"Thank you, Carol. Good luck tonight."

The two of them exchanged a loaded smile and Rick shook his head. When they were left alone, Carl still devouring candy in front of the TV in the other room, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and sighed contentedly.

"I like her," Michonne said, taking a sip of her wine.

"Wait till you taste what she made, you'll really like her. I've been sampling it all afternoon. She damn near bruised my knuckles with a wooden spoon twice, but it was worth it."

"Is that why you're trying to scare away her dates? Afraid she will leave you?"

"Maybe."

"You're terrible," she laughed, swatting his arm.

"You hungry? Want to eat before Carl fills up on candy?"

"Sounds good."

…

Carol's beef and broccoli was to die for. Michonne sat back in her chair and rubbed her belly contemplating whether she had the room to finish her glass of wine. Carl, however, was already back at the candy.

"Are we watching a movie tonight?" Carl asked in between bites.

"It's too nice of a night," Rick said. "How about some baseball in the yard?"

Despite being too full to move, Michonne smiled thinking of the day in the park when she wondered if she'd ever have another day like that with these two men. "It is a beautiful night," she said.

"Ok," Carl agreed. "I'll get the stuff."

"Come on," Rick said, reaching for her hand and pulling her to her feet.

As soon as they crossed through the sliding glass door into Rick's huge backyard, Michonne was reminded once again that despite Rick's down to earth demeanor, he had a very different life now than the one he lead in King County. The huge back yard was edged by lush, six-foot-tall hedges concealing the same wrought iron fence that skirted the front yard. The grass was as green and lush as the stadium's outfield, and was even mowed in the same patchwork pattern, no doubt by a hired team since Rick was gone far too often to keep up with the expansive lawn. There were flower gardens artfully dotting the open field and a small water feature at the far end with a bench and arbor beside it.

They crossed a large deck and down a couple of stairs to land on a paver patio in a grey that matched the stone work on the front of the house. Carl kept running until his feet hit grass, but Michonne paused to take it all in. "This is like a little oasis back here. It's almost as quiet as King County."

"Almost," Rick said, fiddling with a little string on the glove he was giving to Michonne. "If you listen hard enough, you can still hear the traffic."

"But you must like the privacy. And it's just outside the city. It's the best of both worlds."

He looked up at her, obviously pleased. "You like it?"

"It's gorgeous."

"Carl likes it. Gives him a lot of room to run, even if it is just confined to one yard. When I was a kid we had woods and rivers and fields to explore. A big patch of grass doesn't seem the same."

"It's a hell of a lot bigger than what I grew up with," she said. "It's perfect."

He nodded, his mouth still turned upwards in a grin. "I didn't do all of this," he said, pointing to the landscaping. "I bought it from another player who was traded. His wife had it all done. If it were up to me, I might have put in some batting cages back here. Maybe build a mound in the middle right there-" He stopped, obviously catching the horrified look on her face. "But this is nice, too."

Michonne laughed, shaking her head.

"Come on." He started walking toward the center of the backyard, where Carl was now laying in the grass, and she followed. "Too much candy, Carl?" he asked.

"Just waiting on you guys."

Just as she was about to ask how the game was going to go, Michonne spotted a hammock in the far corner of the yard, nestled beside a beach-rose bush. She pulled in an excited breath and headed toward it, flopping down and letting it swing with the force of her weight. "How about count me in for round two?" she called to them, crossing her legs and resting her arms behind her head.

…

Night had fallen and a series of solar lights had switched on around the perimeter of the yard, like mini stadium lights lighting their game. Rick had joined Michonne on the hammock after working off his dinner throwing grounders to Carl until it got too dark. Now Carl had switched to a soccer ball and was kicking it around by the lawn by himself while they swung. He hadn't spent this much time out here yet since the weather had turned warm, but laying here with Michonne and listening to the sounds of the peepers singing had him planning to make better use of it this year. He chanced lacing their fingers together on the hands that laid between them out of Carl's sight.

"I really do want you to wait up with me to give Carol a hard time," he said, running his thumb across her knuckles. "Can you stay awhile?"

"I can stay."

He glanced at Carl. "You can stay the night if you want. I can explain it to him."

"What are you going to say?" she asked, a grin splitting her face.

"I don't know. That I make the best coffee around, so you decided to stay for breakfast?"

Michonne chuckled. "I did enjoy your coffee in King County, but how do I know it will be the same here?"

"Carol makes it here, so it will be even better."

"It's a foolproof excuse."

"That a yes?"

"You have a game tomorrow."

"I have a game almost every day, except the occasional flight day which is why get to have dinner tonight. Besides, I'm not pitching till Saturday."

"I know. Before the auction."

"I kinda like that you know my rotation off the top of your head." She smiled bashfully and it tested all the willpower he had. "Carl! Why don't you go ahead in and brush your teeth before bed," Rick called, earning him a frown but not an ounce of back talk. Carl scurried off into the house and he wasted no time rolling toward her and covering her mouth with his. "So is that a yes?" he asked again when he finally pulled away.

"Not tonight. After the auction."

"You're gonna make me wait another two days to have you again?" He ran his hand down her stomach to the inside of her thigh, feeling her shiver beneath him.

"We have a little time between when Carl goes to bed and Carol comes home." She was whispering as if she couldn't pull in a full breath and he moved down to her neck.

"Then you're just going to drive home? I'm feeling a little cheap."

She laughed, her whole chest shaking beneath him as he covered her with more of his body. "I'll make up for it when you stay over Saturday. We can cuddle afterward and everything. I'll show you I'm not just using you for the sex."

"You're killing me here. I don't get a lot of nights off."

"I'm sorry. I have a deadline and I have to pick up my dress from the tailor. You have to bring Carl to school in the morning."

Unfortunately she was making a lot of sense. He certainly didn't like it though. With Jessie he was firm about no sleepovers on school nights, and game nights. He could already tell he was going to be easing those rules with Michonne. "Ok," he said, rolling off of her and running a hand down his face. "Tell me about this dress. How hard of a time am I going to have keeping my hands off you at this thing?"

"Hmmm. I think you're going to like it, but I'll let you be surprised."

"So we can speak to each other?"

"Yes, of course. Avoiding each other would be just as suspicious. Let's just play professional colleagues for one evening."

"For Mike's benefit."

"No. For all of his competitors; the ones I'm trying to convince to publish the story."

"I know. You explained it; it makes sense. I'm just gonna hate it."

She cupped his cheek and gave him a plaintive smile. "Add it to the list of things I'll make up to you that night," she said.

He raised an eyebrow at her, considering the payoff. "I guess I can suffer for a few hours. But I'm going to need to be tided over until then." He leaned over and kissed her again, almost lost to the rest of the world until he heard Carl's voice shouting from the patio.

"Dad! I'm done!"

Rick jumped off of her and Michonne quickly pulled herself into a sitting position, almost upending the hammock in the process. "I'll be right in," he shouted. Carl took off back into the house looking unconcerned and he scrubbed a hand down his burning cheeks. "Did I just botch that?"

Michonne chuckled quietly, shaking her head. "I don't know. I guess you'll see when you go put him to bed."

Rick groaned. "Wish me luck. I'll be right back to continue this."

…

The night of the auction was warm and clear, a perfect night to be on the water. Michonne stepped out the hired car and tugged at the bodice of her floor-length, fuchsia gown, adjusting the gathering so it settled just below her breasts. The charity event was being held at an oceanfront venue and the salty evening air invigorated her as she stepped to Aaron's side and prepared herself for a long night of mingling, taking notes, and avoiding Mike, all while trying not to interact too much or too little with Rick, in case Mike or any of the other media moguls were watching. It was exhausting to think about and she was glad she had her friend beside her. Aaron would make it a good time even if they were both working.

Michonne had just walked into the ballroom beside him when she felt her clutch vibrating in her hand. She opened it up and pulled out her phone, reading the message as she followed her friend to the table they were assigned to. It was Rick.

" _You look amazing."_

Michonne smiled, looking up from the screen to scan the room for him. Her gaze bounced from one white-clothed table to another, in the dim light of the chandeliers, searching for a glimpse of him in a tux. She hadn't found him yet when she was approached by a woman she recognized from the awards dinner she had attended with Mike a few weeks prior. She was a designer who worked with his magazine from time to time and they'd shared a table. The woman recognized her and insisted on greeting her as if they were old friends.

"Michonne!" she exclaimed. "You look beautiful as always."

"Thank you, Olivia. So do you."

The woman blushed, waving away the compliment. "Where's Mike?" she asked after a few more theatrical pleasantries. She looked Aaron up and down as she asked, suspicion framing her fake smile. This was exactly what she would be dealing with if she had shown up with Rick, she thought. And the consequences would be far worse. As much as she hated the lie, there was no way they could fly under the radar in a room full of acquaintances and business associates.

"Mike and I aren't together anymore," Michonne said, keeping her voice neutral, as if it were old news. "This is Aaron, he's a reporter. We're both here on assignment so we're sharing the evening."

"Oh, interesting. Pleasure to meet you, Aaron," Olivia said, her eyes bouncing between the two of them before she was apparently satisfied by their lack of physical contact. "Well, it was great to see you again, Michonne. I'm sorry to hear about you and Mike. I can't believe I hadn't heard!"

"Good to see you too, Olivia." She smiled politely as Olivia retreated, straight over to a table of other women who all turned to look at Michonne after a moment. "See," she said to Aaron.

"Hey, I never disagreed you were doing the right thing. Your boyfriend looks like he does, though." He pointed with his chin at a table near the dance floor where Rick was watching her over the top of his glass. She smiled at him, and Rick held up his phone, gesturing to it. She pulled hers out again and read another text.

" _What time are we sneaking out of this thing? I need to get that dress off of you."_

She felt her cheeks burn as she tried to keep her face straight. She typed back: " _It just started. Be good."_

She watched him chuckle as he read her reply and she reiterated her warning with a stern smile before putting her phone away. "Let's sit," she said to Aaron. It was going to be a long night.

…

As auctions went, this one was just as mind-numbingly boring as any other, Rick thought, as he sipped his drink and listened to a few of the business department guys blather on about salary caps and how they were ruining the league. He'd pitched another great game that afternoon, and he'd spent the entire first hour after his arrival accepting congratulations and pats on the back from people he was sure had been gossiping about him a very short time ago- maybe still. The thought had him slightly on edge as he looked around the room noting all of the people he was avoiding.

Negan sat at another table on the opposite side of the room, with a gaggle of women around him. Gregory, his soon to be ex-publicist, was chatting with Ford. Mike hadn't arrived yet, interestingly enough, but he was anticipating that as well. The whole thing had the collar of his tux feeling like a noose and his body feeling antsy to finish up the evening.

It had been an hour since Michonne arrived, looking like a movie star, and he was wondering how he was going to get in front of her without being too obvious. She had said they didn't have to pretend to be strangers, but she was certainly keeping her distance. The cocktail hour was almost over and he'd only been able to speak to her via text a few times before he got the evil eye from Gregory who was sitting a few tables over. He certainly didn't need to be photographed looking bored at this event, as Gregory's stare reminded him, so he looked away from his phone and tried to find her again.

Luckily, he spotted her at the bar- the perfect place for a discreet hello. He typed a text and quickly downed the rest of his cocktail.

" _Don't go anywhere. I need to see you up close."_

He watched her glance at the screen of her phone and then over her shoulder at him, before typing a response.

" _Ok, but just a quick hello."_

He smiled, undeterred. " _Or I could meet you somewhere more private for a longer one."_

" _You're trouble. I'm staying at the bar."_

Rick chuckled, deciding to stop wasting time and go get his close up. He shoved the phone in his pocket and grabbed his empty glass, heading for the bar. He wasn't exactly sure how she wanted to play this, so when he arrived at the long wooden bar at the end of the room, he kept his distance, settling a full arm's length from where she stood.

Michonne already had a drink, and the bartender turned to him as soon as he arrived.

"Great game today," the tuxedoed man said. "Looks like you're back in the saddle."

He laughed at the kid's cowboy reference. It never ended. "Thank you. Can I get a whiskey, neat?" Rick asked. "And put hers on my tab." He nodded his head sideways toward Michonne. "All of them."

The bartender took off toward the liquor shelf and Michonne gave him a sidelong glance. "Buying my drinks is less than discreet," she said amusedly.

"No one will know but the bar man."

"Thank you."

"Anytime. We still on for later?"

"Of course." She turned to face him, resting a hip against the bar.

"I haven't seen Mike."

She let out a long breath and her shoulders slumped. "He's not here yet. I feel like I'm waiting for the apocalypse to start."

"It won't be that bad."

"We'll see. I spoke to a couple more of my contacts who are here covering the auction. Put the feelers out for a new place for the story, but I keep getting the cold shoulder. I'm a pariah all of a sudden."

Rick pursed his lips, his jaw tightening. His recent success on the mound was taking some of the spotlight away from his feud with Negan, but the fact that the whole thing was now affecting her wouldn't let him enjoy it. "I don't want you putting yourself on the line anymore, Michonne," he said. "After the last two games, the news is already turning in my favor. Let's just let it lie."

"What about the signs? The taunting from the fans? You don't deserve that reputation." Her voice was rising, but she caught herself, taking a slow sip of her wine before continuing. "Look I'm not just doing this as your writer anymore. I care about you. It hurts to see them say those things about you and then turn around and congratulate you on your wins. They should know they were wrong about you all along."

Rick smiled, the warmth of her words spreading through his chest. He took a step closer and she eyed him warily. "I care about you too," he said quietly. He reached out to run a finger along the gathered material around her waist, then let his hand drop before anyone could see him. "That's why I don't want this affecting you. We'll find a way to fight back, like you said. But as far as the story goes, I can't have you sticking your neck out for me and getting hurt in the process."

She watched him with an expression that was stuck between frustration and longing and he could feel his body begin to respond in a way he wasn't going to be able to hide. Fortunately, the bartender re-appeared with his drink, breaking up the moment.

"I should go back to my table," she whispered. "I'll see you later."

He took a long sip of his whiskey, keeping his eyes on hers, before nodding. "Just say the word when you want to leave."

"The minute I can, you'll know." She gave him a sweet smile, before turning and swaying back to the table she had been sitting at with her friend.

Rick sighed, taking a sip of his shot. It was going to be at least a couple more hours before they'd be able to escape. He passed a few moments chatting with the bartender who was still milling around, and he was actually starting to enjoy the distraction when a flurry of activity at the entrance caught his attention. He turned to see Mike, and an entourage of other equally smug looking men arrive. When the tuxes started to disperse, he saw that Mike had brought a date who looked like much more than a friend. Interesting, he thought, watching the woman whisper in Mike's ear and run a hand along the lapel of his jacket. He looked to the table where Michonne was sitting, wanting to catch a glimpse of her reaction. Surely, she wouldn't be bothered by it, he hoped.

He watched her face when she noticed Mike, a slight frown crossed her features, then what possibly could have been an eye roll, he couldn't tell from his spot. Her friend looked completely unconcerned. Mike, however, was easier to read. His eyes were on Michonne from the moment he entered the room and Rick found himself standing a little straighter at the sight. He wanted to forget the entire charade and walk over to her table and show Mike exactly where things stood between them. Show him that she found someone who would treat her right, but she'd asked him to pretend and he would. He was still going to watch though.

He turned his attention back to the bartender, hoping to keep up the conversation so he could appear occupied while he secretly kept an eye on her. Mike strode over to where Michonne was sitting, a fake smile on his face. He couldn't even have the decency to avoid her?

Michonne stood, frowning now, her lips pursed in a tight lock that looked like she was straining to keep from losing her cool. Her friend's expression had changed to nervous. This was stupid, Rick thought. Of all the games people were playing in this room, this was the one he had the least interest in. She'd told him it wasn't a trade off, her or his career, but how was that true if because of some high society gossip he was sitting here watching a woman he cared about more than anything deal with a bully on her own, unable to even speak to her. He was just going to see if she was okay.

He left his glass on the bar, making his way across the room to where they were speaking in hushed but sharp tones and drawing a few onlookers. He stepped to Michonne's side, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers to keep from touching her and gave Mike a polite nod. "Michonne," he said. Her eyes went wide for a moment when she saw him, but she didn't look angry. "Everything alright?"

"I was just speaking with Mike about the story and how I can't seem to get anyone to take my calls anymore."

Rick frowned. Obviously she wasn't going to take his advice and let it go. But if Mike really was behind her professional problems, he couldn't blame her for wanting an explanation.

Mike's date must have been smarter than she looked, because when Rick fixed his eyes on Mike in response, she excused herself to the ladies room. Once she left, Michonne's voice changed from polite to furious. "Why are you doing this?" she said.

"Doing what, Michonne?"

"You're telling people not to work with me. You've obviously moved on," she said, nodding in the direction of Mike's date's retreat. "So why are you bothering?"

Mike laughed the kind of laugh that comes from a person who thinks they do no wrong. Rick recognized it. It was something he'd noticed in Negan and hated from day one. "Come on Michonne," he laughed. "I can't tell people who to work with, even if they're friends of _mine._ "

"I've been working with some of these people just as long as you have, Mike. They may not print everything I offer them, but I've always gotten a meeting with an editor to discuss it. Now all of a sudden I'm getting calls back from secretaries."

Mike merely shrugged, not even offering her a response and Rick felt his jaw twitch. This guy really was something else.

"I don't understand why you won't let this go. We broke up. It happens. I'm sorry your feelings got hurt, but frankly this whole thing has shown me that you're an extremely selfish and childish person. I don't know what I ever saw in you."

"The feeling is mutual Michonne. And as far as the other guys go, I can't tell them what to do. All I can do is tell them what kind of tactics you've been using to get your stories." He looked at Rick, then back at Michonne with a smug smile. "They can decide if you're the type of professional they want to work with."

Rick had had enough of this jerk. "I think you need to watch your mouth," he said in a low voice. His hands came out of his pockets and balled into fists at his side. Michonne was looking at him warily, and he tried to assure he was in control with a flick of his eyes. "Your ego's bruised, I get it. But you don't get to talk to her that way."

"What are you going to do, Grimes? Hit me? That's your thing, right?" He blew out a mocking breath then turned back to Michonne. "Are you going to have your boyfriend beat me up, Michonne?"

By now they had drawn a small crowd and Michonne stepped between the two. "Listen, Mike, if people want to believe that you're the good one in this scenario, then I can't stop them. But I never cheated on you, and I never did anything like what you're suggesting. You know that, but you just can't believe someone would walk away from you. The thing is, that's exactly what I did, and that's what I'm going to do now."

Michonne grabbed Rick's hand, pulling him through the crowd of people who had been watching the entire event unfold, including to his dismay, Negan.

"You just made an enemy out of a very powerful man, Grimes," he snickered as Rick pushed by him. "You're making this too easy."

…

Michonne stormed through the double doors at the end of the ballroom, Rick following right behind her. She turned the corner to the hallway where the bathrooms were and leaned against the wall outside of the ladies' room, trying to calm her racing pulse. That could not have gone worse. She had been avoiding Rick all night just to stay under the radar and here she was getting into a shouting match with her ex-boyfriend at a charity event in front of a crowd.

"Are you ok?" Rick asked, taking the spot beside her. "I'm sorry, I know you didn't want this out, but I couldn't just stand there."

"It's ok. If he's really out there telling people that I'm sleeping my way into stories, then the damage is already done."

"You want me to go back out there and slug him?" he joked. "Since it can't get much worse for either of us anyway?"

She laughed despite the anger boiling in her throat. "Do I want you to?" she asked. "Yes. Am I going to let you? No."

"Fair enough."

"Oh, Rick," she said, dropping her head into her hands. "How the hell did we get here? Everything is a mess."

"I know how I got here. I was an idiot and lost my cool. You got here because you took a job to try and help me. I'm sorry, Michonne. This is the last thing I wanted."

"It's not your fault. Mike and I were wrong for each other and I get the feeling that no matter how it ended, it was never going to be pretty." Rick hung his head, scratching lightly at his brow. When he didn't respond, she said, "I don't regret it, Rick. Not for a second."

"Me either."

She tipped her head onto Rick's shoulder and hooked her arm around his. "We'll figure it out."

"We will." He started to say something else, but they were interrupted by the loud click of heels down the corridor. Michonne looked up to see a woman she recognized walking their way with a determined look on her face.

"Michonne?" she said, coming to a stop in front of them.

"Sasha. Hi." Michonne quickly untangled herself from Rick and smoothed the front of her dress.

"I wasn't sure if you'd remember me."

"Of course; from dinner a few weeks ago with Mike. Rick, this is Sasha. She's married to Bob Stookey. Point guard for the-"

"I know him," Rick jumped in. "Nice to meet you, Sasha."

Sasha's eyes bounced between the two as she shook Rick's hand. "I couldn't help but overhear your argument with Mike just now," Sasha said to Michonne.

Michonne's cheeked burned in embarrassment. "I guess we made a scene," she sighed.

"I was glad to see it."

"What? Why?"

"Look, I didn't want to say anything at dinner when we met. It wasn't my place and you two seemed happy. But I just heard what he accused you of and I couldn't just sit there."

"It's not true," Michonne said.

"Of course it's not. Look, I know the type. I pegged Mike from the beginning: arrogant, chauvinistic...player. I've never liked him. Frankly, I couldn't believe he had a woman like you to begin with."

"He had no idea what he had," Rick sneered.

"His loss, your gain?" Sasha guessed, studying the two of them again. "I heard you say he's coming at you professionally. What's the story he's blocking you from getting printed?"

"It's about Rick actually," she said, tentatively. "A biopic about his life before the big leagues, and raising his son on the road."

"Single dad?" Sasha asked Rick. He nodded silently, ever humble even when she was trying to sell him. "My mom raised me and my brother alone after my dad died. I know how hard it can be."

"It's an amazing story," Michonne said, taking his hand and squeezing.

"And you wrote it?"

"Yes. That's how we met. It was supposed to be for Mike's magazine. You can see why he's unhappy, but what he's saying about how it happened is a lie, of course. Even so, I can't get it printed anywhere now."

Sasha looked him up and down, then back to Michonne. "Do you remember the story Mike is printing about the home lives of pro-athletes? The reason we met him for dinner?"

Michonne nodded. She'd actually found the subject matter interesting, she remembered. An unusual occurrence when she was joining Mike for work.

"That was all my idea," Sasha said. "Of course they're using Bob's face on the cover, you know how it goes. My brother is in the NFL and my sister-in-law, Karen, suggested we pull some of the connections we have from this group of wives and girlfriends and build something of our own. By women, for women. So we started this website that caters to the wives and girlfriends of pro-athletes. We do a lot of human interest stories, mostly about the women themselves, some about the lifestyle. Between us we have designers and agents and marketing people; smart women. It's not huge, but our stories get picked up by bigger outlets sometimes. Like the one Mike was printing."

Michonne glanced at Rick who was leaned back against the wall, listening intently with a grin on his face.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Michonne asked.

"I don't know if you're still trying to pretend this isn't a thing," Sasha said, waving a hand between her and Rick, a smirk on her face. "But, it seems to me you're part of the club now. We could post your story, do some marketing magic and see what happens."

"Wow," Michonne said. "Thank you."

"We spend a lot of time on the sidelines in this life," she said. "But I could tell when I met you that you were more than just arm candy for Mike. Trust me, I've met enough of those women. Take my card. We'll be in touch."

Michonne took it and thanked her again watching her walk back toward the ball room. Then she turned to Rick and let her grin free. "I can't believe we're going to get this thing printed!" she exclaimed, nearly bouncing on her toes. "How lucky was that?"

"Lucky?"

"Yes. I guess Mike helped me out after all."

Rick shook his head, laughing. "This had nothing to do with Mike, Michonne. What I just heard her say was even when you were there supporting him, you were making impressions on the people around you. This was all you."

She grinned harder, the idea filling her chest with pride. Rick was looking at her with a confidence that made her feel like she could do anything she wanted to; something she'd never felt standing beside Mike.

"Well, then I guess what was really lucky was getting hired for this story in the first place," she said, stepping closer to him and pressing up on her toes to kiss him. "For obvious reasons."

Rick wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her against him and she let him. She was done hiding the best thing that had happened to her in a long time. "How long do we have to stay?" he asked, running a hand along the exposed skin of her back and sending shivers across her shoulders.

She glanced behind her at the door at the end of the hallway where they found themselves. "Let me text Aaron," she said with a wink. She couldn't wait another minute either. "I'll see if I can copy his notes."

 **A/N thanks for waiting so patiently everyone. I hope the next few chapters will come more quickly.**


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: I hope you will all forgive me for the unexcusable wait since the last chapter. Summer vaca for my kids, writer's block, and a little bit of divided focus had this fic completely neglected, but here is Chapter 13. I hope you all like fluff! I think they've earned it! There will be one (maybe 2 depending on word count) chapter after this. I promise it won't be months :)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"This thing has way too many buttons, Michonne," Rick said. He was halfway down the back of her gown and contemplating just ripping it off and buying her a new one.

"Two or three more and I can step out of it."

He worked two more satin balls from their tiny restraints, and the lacey waistband of her panties appeared. He let out a little growl, forcing his fingers to be nimble enough to free a third. "Come on, now," he said, tapping her ass as she wiggled the fabric over her thick hips. The fucsia mess fell to the floor and he wrapped his hands around her belly, pulling her against him. "That was unnecessary torture," he whispered against her ear.

"Sorry," she said with a chuckle. "I promise only zippers from now on." She spun around in his arms and pulled his t-shirt free from his trousers. He'd already discarded his dress shirt and shoes the moment they walked into her apartment. "Things are going to be different now that our relationship is out, aren't they?"

"Only in a good way. I've been able to keep my private life private so far."

"Tell me all the good ways," she purred. She undid the button on his pants, then tugged at the waistband until he was following her down the hall.

"Well, for starters, you can come to the games now." He leaned in to capture her mouth, but she pulled away and continued to lead him toward her bedroom.

"What else?"

"We can leave the house together. Though I'm not sure I care too much about that."

Michonne backed into the door, swinging it open and he took over the lead, pushing forward with his hips against hers until she was seated on the bed. She scooted backward, and Rick followed, leaning over her. "But you said you owed me a date."

Rick laughed then pressed his lips to her neck, whispering against her skin. "You'll get your date."

The last time they were here he had taken his time with her, wanting to savor the moment, but he could already feel tonight was not going to go the same way. He blamed her refusal to stay the night at his house after dinner for the impatience surging through him, but regardless of the reason, it was time for the banter to end and for the moaning to start. He covered her mouth with his in a hungry kiss; one that left no question as to the pace he was setting. Michonne gasped, then met him with a thrust of her hips.

"Christ, Michonne," he said, pulling away to get some oxygen back to his brain.

"Come on, cowboy," she said. She reached behind her and unclasped her bra and he nearly ruined his good tux. He pulled to his knees, stripping the last of his clothing while she pawed at her own underwear, somewhat clumsily pulling them down her legs. When he had kicked his pants and boxers off the end of the bed, he grabbed her hips and flipped her onto her tummy. She squealed playfully and he leaned over, quieting her with one more kiss before moving down her back. He kneaded the thick flesh of her thighs as he moved downward, sinking his teeth into the swell of her ass, then just as quickly, his mouth was back on her neck and he was settled above her.

Michonne wiggled her legs apart beneath his weight, and with one hand in her hair and the other holding himself up, he pushed into her, the warmth and snug fit of their position pulling a growl from his lungs. He stayed still for a moment, afraid if he moved, he might lose all control.

Michonne couldn't wait though, she pushed backward into him, her hips swiveling in a figure eight.

"You're trying to kill me," he rasped out. She laughed, the sound bringing a smile to his face that eased him back from the precipice. He leaned down on his forearm, kissing her jaw and shoulder. "You looked beautiful tonight. You're always beautiful." He started moving as he whispered in her ear. "Sasha was right. Mike's loss was definitely my gain."

"Mmm," Michonne replied. "Less talk about Mike."

"Sorry," he laughed, realizing that was probably a good idea. "More talk about you… and this tight little ass of yours." He reached down and smacked her as he pumped. "And this mouth. How'd I get so lucky?" He kissed her again, hard.

"You are awfully talkative tonight," Michonne giggled.

"You made me go the whole night talking to you by text. Now I have some stuff to say."

"Oh, really?"

"I'm glad this is all out in the open," he said, slowing his pace enough to sweep her hair aside and kiss her neck. "I know it wasn't what you wanted, but I can't hide what you do to me." Rick slipped out of her, turning her so they were face to face. She lifted her hips, begging him back, but before he complied, he cupped her chin and kissed her forehead, then her cheek. "Back at the ball, I told you that I care about you, but I don't just care about you, Michonne. I'm in love with you. I know it hasn't been that long, but that week in King County, just the two of us and Carl, I think I knew it even then. This was meant to be. You said I could have it all and I'm taking it."

Michonne stared up at him, her big eyes blinking away the moisture that was forming there. "I love you too, Rick. You can definitely have it all. Let's take it together."

Rick crushed his mouth to hers and entered her again, channeling all of the emotion and adrenaline of the day into powerful, well-placed thrusts. Michonne was gripping his back and tightening around him, and a few moments later, she was calling his name. Maybe it was the competitor in him, or the way he'd become accustomed to being cheered for a good performance, but hearing her encouragement pushed him to his own finish. He finally collapsed into her arms, out of breath and feeling like there wasn't a single thing left for him to want in the world.

 **...**

"I'm proud of you, you know," Michonne said. They were sharing a late night snack on her little balcony, watching the city put itself to bed, and she pulled her fuzzy robe tighter, nuzzling further into Rick's lap. "You handled things well tonight."

He wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed. "Me?"

"With Mike. I know it was a struggle."

"I knew you had it under control."

"Still. I appreciated you being there. There's always going to be guys like Mike and Negan, the temptation to be drawn into that, but you have too much to lose."

He nodded against her shoulder. "I know that now. What happened with Negan, it won't happen again." He laughed, quietly. "Besides, I don't think Hershel could handle another scandal."

"Oh, God," Michonne said, joining in his laughter. "Wait till he finds out everyone knows about us."

"Nah, once he hears your story's getting printed, he'll be back to his old self."

"And you'll be back to being one of his favorite people."

"Second only to you and Carl," he joked. "And, Michonne, I'm proud of you too. You'll call Sasha Monday, right?"

"Yes. Then it's out of our hands, but I have a feeling things are going to be just fine."

"They are, and this could mean big things for you."

"Big things for us."

"That's right," he said, leaning down to kiss her again. "For us."

…

 **2 months later**

Michonne knocked on the wooden door to Sasha's office and she waved her in. "Hey, you!" Sasha exclaimed, coming around her huge desk to give Michonne a hug. "Your story is taking off!"

"I can't believe it."

Sasha motioned for Michonne to take a seat on a bright red couch in the corner of her office. "I can. It was a great read and it didn't hurt that your boy's having quite the string of luck on the mound. You know what they say: timing's everything."

"Well, I wouldn't have been able to take advantage of that timing without you," Michonne said. "Thank you."

"I feel like I should be thanking you. You've brought us some great attention. Between ESPN and Sports Illustrated vying for your story, and the local markets all doing segments on it, mentioning our little publication, our advertising revenue has had a huge boost."

Michonne shook her head, going over the last few months in her head. It really had been a whirlwind. "So what did you want to see me about?"

"I wanted to give you this." She handed Michonne an envelope. "It's an invitation. You're up for an award."

Michonne opened the envelope. It was an invitation to The Sportswriter's Awards, of all things. The same event she had been to last with Mike. The next time she attended, she would be a nominee and she'd be there with Rick.

 **...**

"There she is!" Aaron called from their usual table. Michonne waved to her friends, making her way through the Friday night crowd to join them. The game was blaring from three televisions around the room and her stomach growled at the smell of wings and burgers that filled the air.

"Did you order for me?" she asked, hopping up onto a pub stool.

"Of course," Andrea said, sliding a pint of beer her way. "Veggie nachos and a side of extra spicy wings on the way."

"You're the best."

"So how'd we get so lucky to have you join us tonight?" Aaron said. "Why aren't you sitting behind home plate?"

Andrea clinked her glass against Michonne's and took a sip. "Yeah, Rick's been on the road all week. Figured you'd be there tonight."

"Carl is away at baseball camp for the week and Carol had a date. I didn't want to go by myself. Besides, I'll see him later tonight."

"She says this like she'd be at a loss for someone to join her," Andrea said with a roll of her eyes.

Michonne raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh! Would you two like to go to a game?"

"I hate you."

"Michonne," Aaron said, "we would never use you for tickets. Would we, Andrea?"

"Yeah. Never."

"I'm kidding," Michonne laughed. "Rick told me to pick a date and he'd get us one of the suites. Whatever that means."

Andrea did a little dance in her chair and this time turned to Aaron for a cheers.

"I just wanted to hang out here for the night," Michonne said. "It's been a crazy few weeks and I missed you guys."

"We missed you too," Aaron said. "So what's the latest? ESPN won the bidding war and their going to make your story into one of their specials?"

"Yes. I wasn't sure Rick would go for it, but Hershel convinced him. And my phone has been ringing off the hook with work. I can barely keep up."

"You're the talk of the town," Andrea said, beaming. "I'm proud of you Michonne. This has been amazing for both of you."

"You know what's amazing?" Aaron said, gesturing to the television with his beer. "That score."

It was the top of the fifth inning and Rick's team was leading eight to nothing. Michonne was already looking forward to the celebration when Rick arrived at her condo later that evening. Apparently reading the look on her face, Andrea kicked her shin under the table.

"Is your man going to get lucky twice tonight, Michonne?"

Michonne shook her head, pretending to be offended. The truth was, though, that was exactly what was going to happen. "Why is your mind always in the gutter?"

"Speaking of the gutter," Aaron chimed in. "Negan's numbers sure are in it. I can't believe how much money they sank into this guy. It's August and even with the suspension taken into account, he's not even close to T-dog's averages. So much for replacing him."

"One game he's slugging homers and the next he can't hit a softball pitch," Andrea said. "Maybe Rick won't have to put up with him for much longer."

Michonne laughed. She had been enjoying Rick's petty commentary on his nemesis as of late. She still didn't know much about batting averages, but apparently Negan's was shit and Rick was having a hard time containing his reaction.

"I guess we can only hope," Michonne said.

…

Rick pulled a clean shirt from his locker, buttoning it as he listened to Walsh go on about the post-game party he was headed to. The team had swept the last series they had played on the road and come home to start this one off with a bang. Everyone was in celebration mode. Everyone except Negan, who was slamming his gear into his own locker across the room.

"So you're really not coming?" Walsh asked, after they shared a look over Negan's tantrum.

"I don't know why this surprises you," Rick said. "I haven't been to one since… you know."

"Yeah, but now you're everyone's hero again. Just make an appearance."

"Nah, man. I already have plans. You'll have to get into trouble without me."

Negan dropped his bag on the floor with a huff and shoved a folding chair out of his way as he crossed the locker room.

"Something wrong, Negan?" Walsh called, with a mischievous smirk.

Negan turned in their direction and pasted on a slimy smile. "'Course not, fellahs. Hey Grimes, great job tonight. You're really back on your game."

"Thanks, Negan," Rick said. "Glad one of us had a good night."

Negan sucked his teeth, and Rick watched a few different responses pass over his expression before he finally set his hands on his hips and grinned again. "Yeah, well, it was just a fluke. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it."

"You know," Rick said. "I think it was you who said it. It's a mental game, right? Maybe something's just got your head all twisted." Rick circled his finger next to his temple, then turned his fist upward to display his middle finger.

"That's right," Negan said. "That _was_ me who said that. Damn, I am a smart son of a bitch. You know maybe I oughta get myself a hot little thing to screw into writing me a hero story. Hey! You have one of those, right? You wanna share...again?"

Rick laughed. If Negan was trying to get under his skin, using Michonne wasn't going to work. If there was one thing he never had to worry about, it was her being fooled by a guy like Negan. "Something tells me she wouldn't be interested," he said, turning his attention back to Shane.

"I guess so. You know, it is too bad you're not gonna make it to the party, though, Grimes. I was looking forward to getting another look at her. She's a feisty little thing, isn't she?

"She is," Rick replied. He finished the last button on his shirt and slung his bag over his shoulder, heading toward the door. "If I were you, I wouldn't get on her bad side."

"I think I'd take just about any side of that piece of ass," Negan hollered to Rick's back as he walked out of the locker room.

He paused, tilting his head to the side, and contemplated turning back around, but Michonne's words after the ball rang in his head and he stopped himself. "I'll see you guys later," he said, letting the moment pass. "Y'all have a good time."

They could hear Negan slamming his locker closed as Shane hurried to catch up with Rick.

"You'da thought we lost," Shane said, tossing a thumb behind his shoulder in Negan's direction. "That guy only cares about himself. He's an asshole."

"Yeah, well, I ain't surprised."

"I heard his agent dropped him. Between his performance and the fact that every other day he's spouting off some crazy shit online, the guy didn't think he was worth the trouble anymore."

"Maybe Hersh will come to the same conclusion and he'll find himself in a new city next year."

"Wouldn't that be a stroke of luck," Shane said. "Have fun with your girl. We'll miss you tonight."

"Can't say the same for you," Rick joked. "But y'all have a good time."

…

Michonne was curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, when Rick finally made it across town to her condo. He dropped his bag beside the door and crossed the room to stretch out beside her.

"Good game tonight," she said, shifting so that he could lay his head in her lap. She set down her glass and began massaging his shoulders while he relaxed.

Rick turned his head, kissing the inside of her arm. "What'd did you end up doing?"

"I went to the Ale House with Andrea and Aaron. They said 'congrats' by the way."

"Thanks. If we keep playing like this, we'll be headed to the playoffs next month. You think they'd want some tickets?"

Michonne laughed, moving her hands down to his chest. "They would kill for some tickets."

"No need for murder. Consider it done. As long as you come with them."

"I'm sorry I didn't come tonight. Life has been so busy since the story was printed, I just needed a low key night. I promise I'll go with Carl as soon as he gets home."

"That's alright, 'Chonne. I know you were watching."

"I haven't missed a game in months. What has come over me?"

Rick laughed, amused by what a die hard fan she had become. "Thanks for waiting up for me. I know it's late. Got caught up in the locker room listening to Negan spout off."

"Rick…"

"Don't worry. I didn't let him get to me. In fact, it was kinda gratifying watching him melt down. There really isn't much behind that bravado of his."

"Well, guys like him always get theirs. You just focus on you."

"Us."

Michonne smiled, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Right. Us."

"You tired?" Rick asked. "You've had a long week."

"No way. I didn't wait up just to go to sleep."

"You have something else in mind?" he asked. He rolled over so that his face was pressed against her tummy and pulled the hem of her t-shirt up, pressing his lips to her skin.

"You didn't think I was going to let you come off a win like that with no congratulations, did you?"

"Nah, I know better than that. You're my best cheerleader." Rick scrambled off the couch and grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet for a proper kiss. "Let's go celebrate then."

"You earned it."


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Well, I made you wait long enough for the end of this story, didn't I? I'm really sorry. Life got in the way as usual. I appreciate all of the messages I've received on this story, looking for updates or just letting me know you enjoyed it. I know I have been MIA and I apologize. I'm working on an original manuscript and I've been pouring everything I have into it for the past year. I wouldn't even be doing that if it weren't for all of your support, so I just want to thank you all so much. I know this sounds like a goodbye letter, but its not. I do need to focus on the next phase of my manuscript, but I have a few prompts I am working on and maybe soon a short little epilogue to this for Christmas. I'll be around. Please hit me up on Tumblr. I have some one shots in me too. I can't promise another multi-chapter for awhile, but now that I know Rick is still alive, I have no intention of leaving this Richonne world. If anyone is interested in my original stuff, or keeping tabs on when you might be able to read it, here comes my shameless plug: please follow me on  
Twitter rhmae_me  
Love you all.

XXXXXXXXXX

Rick leaned back in the armchair of his hotel room, resting his feet on the window sill. The bright lights of the city and the pale blue light from his phone were the only things illuminating the room as he listened to the sound of the line ringing. It was late, but Michonne always waited up for a call when he was on the road.

"Hey, baby!" she answered, sounding wide awake.

Her velvet voice rippled through him, calming the adrenaline high he was still riding. "Hey." He'd been gone for a week and, as usual, the end of the road trip had him missing her like crazy. "It's good to hear your voice. How was your day?"

"It was good. I made a few deadlines, cleared my work plate so I can focus on other things tomorrow night."

"Oh yeah? Like what other things."

"I have a date actually."

"Yeah? It's about time."

Michonne laughed. "My boyfriend is a famous baseball player. I take what I can get."

"Now you're just breaking my heart."

"I'm joking. You know what they say. Good things come to those who wait… and I've been waiting really patiently."

He could tell by her flirty tone that she was in the mood to play with him a little. It had been four days since he'd seen her and his self control was waning. "Got any specific good things in mind?" he asked, his fingers walking down his bare stomach, lingering at the waistband of his sweatpants.

"I was promised a night out," she purred.

"Oh yeah? What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking tight little dress, maybe a few too many cocktails. Then see where the night takes us."

"I can tell you exactly where that's gonna take-" His response was cut short by the sound of yelling in the hallway.

"Rick?"

"One minute, babe. Hold that thought."

He pulled himself out of the chair and crossed the room to look out the peephole of his door. The yelling became more clear and he recognized Morgan's firm and steady voice behind it. Then there was a loud thud.

"I think Negan's throwing a tantrum," Rick said, laughing into the phone.

"About what?"

"I don't know. Let me go check it out."

"Take me with you!"

"Ok."

He switched the phone to speaker, then slid it into his pocket before opening the door. The bright light of the hallway hit him along with the sound of Negan's ranting.

"This is a bunch of horse shit," Negan yelled. "You all know this!"

Negan was pulling at his hair like a mental patient while Morgan stood against the wall, arms crossed and a look of pure fury in his eyes.

"What's going on?" Rick asked. Daryl had appeared in the doorway of the room next to his, looking as though he had been woken from a dead sleep. He shook his head.

"You think this team would be here in the playoffs if it wasn't for me?" Negan pounded his fist on the wall and paced. "You're gonna bench me for game five over a slump? I got us here. I saved this team."

Daryl shot Rick a look. "Son of a bitch," he muttered.

"You're one man, Negan," Morgan said calmly. "We have a whole team who got us here."

"You just keep telling yourself that, Jones," Negan said, stepping toward Morgan. "You tell yourself that all the way to getting knocked out of the next round without me at bat."

Rick reached in and adjusted the phone in his pocket to make sure Michonne could hear.

Morgan looked unfazed. "I guess we'll see."

"We'll see?" Negan sneered, his usual smarmy self melting into something a little more uncaged. "We'll see?" With two long strides he was in front of Morgan, his hand balled into a fist.

Rick and Daryl rushed toward them, each of them grabbing ahold of one of Negan's arms and holding him in place.

"Oh this is too much," Negan said, struggling against their hold and laughing like a maniac. "This is really just too much. Fucking Grimes is still here after all his shit, and I'm getting the boot?"

"Grimes is a team player," Morgan said. "You're a self-serving asshole who can't hit anymore. Pack up your stuff. You'll be watching the rest of the series from the bench."

Negan wrenched himself out of Rick's hold and disappeared into his hotel room with a slam of the door.

Morgan looked at the group that had gathered in the hallway. "Team meeting as soon as we land at home, guys. For now, go to bed."

"Jesus," Rick said into the phone as soon as he was back in his room. "Did you get all that?"

"He really is crazy."

"No doubt."

"And you'll be ok without him?"

Rick laughed. "You mean without the guaranteed out he's been for the last couple months? We'll be fine. Benching him in the playoffs, though? I gotta say, I'm surprised. There's a story here, you know? Morgan isn't telling us something. "

"Rick…"

"I'm just saying. I know you're past having to write about sports, but someone's gonna look into it. Might as well be you after all the hell he's caused."

"I'll think about it."

"All right." He plopped back down into the chair and leaned back. "Now back to where we were."

 **...**

"So are all dates with Rick Grimes like this, or is this just because we had to wait so long?" Michonne leaned against the railing at the rooftop bar, taking in the view. Champagne, candlelight and a panoramic of the downtown skyline- her aversion to fancy was wearing off as she glanced at the man beside her in the tailored suit that matched his eyes.

"Well, I did owe you something special after everything. But I'll take you here every night if you want." She lifted an eyebrow, knowing that even after the media mess had cleared, his schedule had pushed this night off for months. "In the off season," he amended.

"You just keep winning playoff games. There will be time." She tipped her glass to his, the chime of glass on glass turning a couple of indiscreet heads in their direction.

"We got time right now. Let's get out of here."

"Is there a part two?" she asked, stepping closer to sidle up to his warmth in the chilly night air.

"You didn't think our first real date was going to end at nine o'clock, did you?" He circled his finger in the air and a waiter came rushing over.

"All set, Mr. Grimes?" the eager kid said. His cheeks had turned bright pink every time he had spoken to Rick, and his voice shook. Michonne couldn't help but smile at the Rick effect, now that she knew how much he hated it.

They decided on a walk before heading to the suite Rick had booked for the night. The air was thick with the scent of early fall and knowing the winter that awaited them, the whole city seemed to be out enjoying the last of this type of night out.

They were traversing a particularly bumpy cobblestone path, laughing at Michonne's trouble navigating it in her strappy heels, when a car door closing up ahead caught their attention. Mike stepped out of a black town car and almost walked right into them.

"Michonne," he said, running a hand over his head.

"Hi Mike," she said, glancing between the two men. Rick remained silent, and she was grateful for small favors. His hand was already tightened around hers.

Mike noticed the gesture, but he kept his eyes on hers with a look far more diffident than she expected from her ex. "It's been awhile," he said, clearing his throat. "Congrats on that award. I didn't get to say it that night at the dinner."

"You were busy sitting two tables away from us, Mike. I get it."

"Michonne," he said with a sigh, glancing quickly at Rick then back to the ground. "Listen, I've actually been meaning to call you."

"Whatever for?" she said with a laugh.

"I'm sorry about how everything went down. You didn't deserve the way I treated you."

Michonne shook her head. Mike apologizing was a first and she had a hunch there was more to the gesture than humility. "Are you just saying this because Hershel doesn't give your magazine inside access to the team anymore?"

"No. Really." Mike shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and hung his head. "I was a jerk and I'm sorry."

Michonne eyed him suspiciously, but ultimately Mike was a non-factor. Whether he was sorry or not, she'd moved on. "Okay," she said graciously. "I accept your apology, Mike. Have a good night." She pulled on Rick's sleeve to keep them moving.

"Wait!"

Rick gave her a look in askence, but she waved him off. "What is it, Mike?"

"Negan being benched," he said, chancing a step toward them. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "The story is blowing up. There are rumors he had bookies in every state, he was getting paid off the losses. It's complicated and it's going to take a real journalist to dig up all of the dirt on this guy. Whoever breaks the whole thing is gonna be a star. Maybe it could be you."

"She's already a star," Rick said, making no attempt at hiding the displeasure in his voice.

Mike nodded. "It's a good opportunity," he said. "I need someone who's up to the task and I owe you one. Just think it over. Goodnight, Michonne. Rick."

With that he turned on his heel and walked on. Michonne stood, watching him retreat.

"You were right about there being a story," she said to Rick once he was out of sight.

"And you were right that you didn't need it."

"Maybe."

Rick nodded, running his hand over her cheek. "Well, think it over. Whatever you decide to do, either way, Mike's coming to you for help now. In my world, where everyone's always keeping score, I'd say you've already won."

Michonne smiled, a little competitive cheer pushing her grin wider. "What a power couple we are."

Rick laughed, heartily, pulling her into a hug. "Damn right."

 **...**

"Carl, I think that's enough hotdogs." Carol shared a look with Michonne while she swapped the second hotdog on his plate with some apple slices she had packed in her bag. "If he ate like this at every game, we'd have to roll him out of here."

Michonne chuckled. This was a very important game and besides the luxury suite Rick had assigned them, there were also some perks to be had by having an in with the team owner. Hershel had more trays of food delivered every inning.

"Can I at least have a rootbeer float before the end of the game?" Carl asked, looking first to Carol, then arranging his features into a sad little pout and turning them on Michonne.

Michonne held her hands up. She wasn't getting involved in this one. Besides, Rick was about to take the mound and despite her utter confidence in him, her belly was in knots. She stole one of the apple slices and took her seat in the leather stool overlooking the stadium while Carl and Carol negotiated his dessert allowance.

"This is unbelievable," Aaron said, as she plopped down beside him.

"Amazing," Eric added, rubbing his hands together to keep the brisk September night air at bay.

Andrea was bouncing in her seat. "Championship game, luxury box, after party!" She reached over the two men to give her a hug. "Michonne, Rick is the best thing that has ever happened to our friendship."

"Maybe Rick can hook you up with one of his teammates tonight, Andrea. Isn't Shane Walsh your new crush now that Michonne said you can't lust over The Cowboy anymore?"

"She says I can't, but what is she really gonna do about it?"

Michonne was vaguely aware of her friends banter while she kept an eye on the bullpen. Rick had already gone through his warm up and was chatting with his catcher, the both of them bouncing on their toes to keep warm. He'd said he had a good feeling about his start. His arm was in tip top condition and without Negan around, the general disposition of the team was optimistic. They were ready. One more win and they were headed to the World Series. And it was Rick's turn with the ball.

The hype music blared over the speakers and she watched him trot out to the mound. When he took his spot, he dug the tip of his cleat into the fresh dirt, dragging it back and forth. His eyes stayed on the divot he was creating and her heart began to skip. It looked like a nervous gesture and she leaned forward to get a better view.

Just as the first batter took his spot in the box, Rick tipped his head to the crowd, looking toward their suite. She stood from the stool she was sitting in. He couldn't see her from there, could he?

She waved her hand nervously, feeling a little silly, but when she looked at the jumbo screen that was zeroed in on his face, she watched a grin pull at the corner of his mouth. She put her fingers to her mouth and blew a kiss in his direction and just before the camera cut away, she saw him wink in response.

Carl rushed to take the seat beside Michonne, and Aaron whistled and clapped beside them while the crowd roared.

"Here we go," Carl said.

Whatever the end of this story was going to be, it was in Rick's hands now.

…

"Grimes!"

"Over here!"

Reporters were lining the tunnel exit as he pushed out of the locker room with Walsh and Dixon. He'd already given what felt like a hundred interviews after winning the game, but they were still shouting and calling to him. He told himself one more and he would politely excuse himself and go find his family.

He was scanning the crowd for someone that looked like they might cut him some slack and make it quick, when he saw her. She had a big puffy parka on and a thick scarf almost obscuring her face, but his eyes knew instinctively to stop when they found her.

He ducked behind Walsh, sacrificing him to the crowd, and made a beeline toward Michonne.

"How'd you get down here?" he asked, pulling her against his chest.

"I used my press pass. I couldn't wait any longer." She pushed up on her tiptoes and took his face in her gloved hands. "You did it."

He nodded and the emotion of the moment began to burn at the corner of his eyes. He laughed and shook his head to keep it at bay. "Who woulda thought we'd be standing here."

"You earned every bit of it."

"Christ, Michonne, what a season." He held her tighter and pushed aside the hood to her coat to whisper in her ear. "This is a dream come true, but walking out here afterward and seeing you? This is the real win."

"Rick Grimes, you are too much." She wiped at her eye and laughed. "Let's celebrate."

"Let's." He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up, crushing his mouth against hers. The cameras flashed around them and the line of reporters hooted and cheered. He could only imagine the Twitter posts, but hiding was a thing of the past and this was the best night of his career. They might as well capture it.

He set her down on the balls of her feet with one last kiss on her nose. "Where's Carl?"

"Waiting for his hero. Let's go, cowboy."

Michonne tugged his hand and he followed, letting the calls disappear behind him. "Let's go."


	15. Epilogue

A/N: Dear Richonne family, I want to thank all of you who supported my book launch last week. It meant the absolute world to me. Writing a book has taken all of my free time over the last year, and because of that I haven't been around much, but today I found myself with a little bit of extra time and I wanted to give it to you. I hope you enjoy this Christmassy epilogue to Game Changer. Merry Christmas to all who celebrate and thank you again for your support on my book. This is truly the best fandom.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Epilogue

"Careful, Carl!" Rick hollered as his son's shiny dress shoes skated across the blacktop. He wove between a couple of parked town cars, drawing annoyed looks from their bored drivers, then jumped a slushy puddle. Rick winced. New England winters provided far too many opportunities for little boys to break an arm.

Carl slowed a bit when he got to the paver path, but still kept a good pace ahead of them. "You be careful too," he said to his date. Michonne tossed him a look as she easily traversed the slick terrain in heels. He still let a protective hand fall to her elbow. "You know, it's probably sixty-degrees in King County right now. We could cook out, drink cocoa on the back porch."

"We'll do all of that this weekend when we fly in," Michonne promised, slipping her arm around his waist. "Christmas is supposed to be just like this."

She was stunning in her cranberry-red, wool coat and fuzzy white scarf, her hair piled on top of her head with diamond clips decorating her locs like icicles. As much as he had pushed for a quiet evening at home watching Christmas movies, he had to admit, he was glad he hadn't missed out on seeing her dressed like this. Besides, they still had tomorrow for pajamas and cocoa, and the very special present he had under the tree with her name on it.

Carl reached the front steps, and just as he was about to push the glowing doorbell, the heavy oak door swung open and the warm light of the home's foyer flooded the snowy stoop and spilled onto the lawn. "Ho, ho, ho!" Hershel—erm—Santa shouted, waving a white-gloved hand at Carl. He was a little old to be fooled by his old friend's disguise, but Carl's eyes still lit with magic like he was letting himself believe. Staying in the cold, busy city for the holiday wasn't Rick's first choice, but he couldn't deny, there was something about a white Christmas that made all little boys wide-eyed, and all old baseball team owners look like Saint Nicholas.

Michonne tipped her chin to look at him, and her own eyes were merry and bright. A few snowflakes landed in her hair and her eyelashes now that they had stopped moving, and he brushed the watery remnants of one from her cheek with his thumb. He felt a warmth spread through his chest, beating out the frigid December air.

"Feeling less Grinchy?" she asked, catching on to the way his thoughts had pivoted.

He took a deep breath of the snowy air and squeezed her to him. "Much," he said, leaning in for a quick taste of those full, warm lips. "But I'm still looking forward to the end of this night. For other reasons." She smiled, her cheeks rounding and her teeth showing. That warmth crept lower.

"But first," she said, "Hershel's Famous Christmas Eve Party."

"Yeah. First things first."

"Get in here, you two," Hershel shouted, breaking the snowy, Christmas spell that had come over them. He'd dropped the jolly act once Carl had disappeared inside. "You're letting all my heat out."

Rick took Michonne's hand and led them through the doorway to the marble and gold foyer of Hershel's home. The chandelier above them was strung with garland and baubles, the grand staircase decked out with more fresh greenery than the woods behind the house. Hershel was an old country boy at heart. He didn't bask in his wealth like a lot of other people who shared his zip code did, except at these once-a-year holiday parties where he threw his money and all of his connections at collecting the best decorators and caterers and party-planners the city had to offer, to transform his home into a Christmas wonderland. Rick looked around at the guests, mingling and sipping champagne in every corner of the place, and then at the beautiful woman on his arm. The whole scene was growing on him.

A man in a tuxedo took their coats, and even though he'd seen it before they left, Rick let himself take another indulgent look at the dress Michonne wore, emerald green with silver stitched throughout the fabric like tinsel. A long slit up the side that showed off those legs of hers, and the sparkly straps of her shoes. She looked like a Christmas tree, and he desperately wanted to be underneath her.

A white-shirted woman greeted them with a tray of champagne while Hershel stood by, adjusting his fake belly. "You gonna wear that thing all night?" Rick asked, handing a flute to Michonne and taking one for himself.

"As long as the mood strikes me. Besides, I'm feeling a little bit like the man himself, seeing the two of you here together, knowing I'm the reason for it. Ho, ho, ho."

"Now that it all worked out, and he's got a trophy in his office, he's proud of himself."

Michonne laughed and gave Hershel a warm hug. "We're glad to be here."

"Well, go get some food and enjoy yourselves. I've got some new tricks to show Carl."

…

Rick in a tuxedo was something Michonne didn't think she'd ever tire of. When they'd first met, their mutual love of casual days and quiet nights bonded them instantly, but since Rick's team had made it to the World Series last fall, and she'd won an award for her story on Negan, she'd gotten used to being on his arm at black-tie functions. She was developing a taste for celebrations, as long as they were with Rick. Didn't hurt that they always ended with a more private celebration when the night was over.

Hershel's Christmas Eve party was just as she remembered it. It was so good to be back here after missing the last one. It was especially good to be here with Rick and Carl. She looked around the room, spotting the boy practicing whatever new trick Hershel had shown him on a couple of Rick's teammates. She smiled, remembering when it was she who'd spend the evening mastering one of the old man's illusions. How funny, she thought for maybe the thousandth time, that both she and Rick were so at home in this place, yet hadn't been at home here together until now. How fitting that they be there together tonight.

The couple that Rick had been making conversation with wandered off, and Michonne took the opportunity to tug him closer. They'd been entertaining small talk all evening, and she wanted to steal a private moment with her date. "I want more champagne," she said.

"Well, lucky for you, I don't think it's in short supply."

The cheery top-forty holiday music that had been their soundtrack petered into a quiet rendition of O Holy Night and she stopped in her tracks. "Oh, but first, let's dance," she said.

Rick laughed, and led her to the living room where a few other couples had already had the same idea.

She took his hand and settled against his firm chest. The offseason hadn't affected his training, and she let her fingers stroke at the hard muscles of his back while they swayed. "Do you ever think about it?" she asked. "How we should have met at this very party last year?" She let herself contemplate the irony of her late introduction to Rick once more—the year she'd missed this party to go away with Mike, how downtrodden she'd been knowing all the festivities were still taking place, and she was missing them. That was the year Rick and Carl had been here. Maybe she'd somehow known that she was missing out on this future. Him. Them.

"I think it went like it was supposed to."

"Yeah?"

"You weren't a big fan of ballplayers, remember? You probably wouldn't have given me the time of day."

"Not true," she said, smiling into his shirt. "I fell for that face the minute I saw it. I wouldn't have been able to resist."

Rick chuckled, then his voice went soft. "This year was a rollercoaster, but I think I was meant to go through it the way I did."

Maybe he was right. Maybe the thing that she and Mike ended up becoming was something she needed to go through too. Serendipity or not, they'd met and they were here and this was the best Christmas yet. She leaned her head on his shoulder and the tinkle of Carl's laughter sounded from behind her as they danced. "Either way," she said. "Right now, this, it's exactly right."

"It is, but later on tonight. You and me alone. That's gonna be more right."

Michonne laughed, her muscles suddenly feeling tired and ready to call it quits. "What do you say we move on to that part, then, cowboy?"

"I've been waiting for you to say that all night."

…

Michonne descended the stairs carefully, her bare feet turning the flowing hem of her dress into a tripping hazard. Rick was sitting on the couch, still in his tux, with the fireplace serving as the only light in the room. "He's dreaming of sugarplums," she said.

Rick turned toward her, a lazy, exhausted smile pulling at his lips. "Sorry you got saddled with the bedtime story."

"Please. I've been dying to read The Polar Express this year. Carl gave me a reason."

Rick held his arm out, and she took the spot beside him, snuggling into his chest. "Are you tired?"

"I am," she sighed. "But I'm also enjoying this moment. Let's sit here for a little while longer."

"Okay."

She adjusted the skirt of her gown and pulled her knees up beneath her, resisting the urge to fall asleep. "You're sure you want me to stay tonight?"

"What kind of question is that?"

She had to admit, going back to her place felt like an odd choice since she'd been staying there since the season ended, but she had to make sure. "Christmas morning is special. I don't need to intrude. I can come back after you've had your time—"

Rick cut her off with a kiss, hard and final. When he pulled away, there was something flickering in his eyes that she couldn't quite read. He looked almost nervous. "Rick."

"Come here." He stood and tugged her hand, leading her out of the room and toward the archway that separated his living room from his kitchen. He pointed up, a sly smile on his lips, and she laughed.

"You didn't need mistletoe if you wanted a kiss," she said, hoping that private celebration was about to begin.

But Rick shook his head. "I'm not going to kiss you yet."

She put on an exaggerated pout, the kind she hoped would get her on the naughty list later. "Tease," she simpered.

"I'm not going to kiss you until you say yes."

"What?"

Rick shoved a hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, velvet box. Michonne's hands flew to her mouth. "I was going to wait until tomorrow morning, put it under the tree, but watching you walk Carl to bed, hearing you read to him, I couldn't wait another minute. You're right, Michonne, whether it was at that party a year ago, or because I went and almost ruined my career and needed you to pull me out, you and I were always going to be. If you think I'm going to spend this Christmas or any other without you, you're crazy. You're my second chance of a lifetime. Will you marry me?"

Michonne felt tears burn the corners of her eyes, picturing his handsome face the first day they'd met—covered in scruff, bruised, and smile-less—about to change her life. Maybe Hershel really was Santa Claus. "Yes, Rick," she said, letting him slip the ring on her finger. "Of course, I'll marry you."


End file.
